Fun at the office

You ever see those pictures going around the internet of office cubicles redecorated as a welcome back from vacation gift? They've wrapped everything in tin foil or newspaper or covered everything in post-it-notes. In one case they planted some kind of seedlings in the keyboard and the plant-life emerged between the keys. In another they sealed the cubicle entrance with stretch-wrap and filled the cube with styrofoam nerds.

About a year ago my buddy Frank went to Spain for a couple weeks and on one of those days we had a massive server crash. Faced with the prospect of eight hours of thumb-twiddling, Rockin' Roddie and I came up with a worthy offline project. We bought 300 square feet of brown kraft paper and resurfaced ol' Frankie's entire office.

He has a big office. Besides what you can see in the photo above we papered his table and guest chairs, his file cabinet, stereo components and framed pictures. Even his dirty mug and drinking glass and his stacks of documents (separated into random wrapable-sized piles). It turned out 300 square feet wasn't enough. So much of it was done in newspaper instead.

He was back in the office for all of about five seconds before everyone squealed on Roddie and I. Bastards.

The sign on his monitor reads, by the way, "Welcome back from vacation, bitch." Nice touch, eh?

My boss just returned from a ten-day Florida vacation today. We've been too busy to spend a day wrapping all his belongings in newspaper as I'd suggested to the team. But it so happens that one of my clients is one of the leading chocolate bar manufacturers in the world. Thus Joe returned to find his desk burried in something a little more desirable than kraft paper...

Movie: Pan’s Labyrinth

Remember the movie simply titled Labyrinth with David Bowie?

There’s a similar theme here. An earthly world converges with a fantastic one. There’s a young girl and an infant sibling and lives are at stake.

But Pan’s Labyrinth is far more serious. It’s darker – very dark, in fact. It’s creepy and disturbing and downright upsetting. It’s moving and sad and it’s not for kids.

In this film the villain reigns not in the fairy realm but in the earthly world. The setting is a large remote mill-come-military outpost in occupied Spain - around the close of world war two I presume. And more scenes unfold there than in the ‘labyrinth’. The fantasy-dominant ads are misleading. As for claims of similarity to Lord of the Rings I’ll grant parallels along lines of style but as for scope or storyline – forget it. They’re eons apart.

It smacks of M. Knight Shamalamadingdong’s efforts but better.

The cast is strong. It’s a well-crafted, award-worthy film, I thought, and one that is not quickly forgotten. But don’t see it unless you’re willing to have your buttons pushed.

FWG

More Steve-o quotes of the day

What can I say? He's just an endless supply of freakish entertainment.
Again - words in italics were sang, not spoken.


1.
I am Olash. I eat Taco Bell.

2.
You know you look like hell when homeless people start throwing you change.

3.
Gonna pick up a keg of Steam Whistle beer. Don't know what'll happen. Maybe it'll be queer...

4.
I told her, 'Look- it's either upstairs or outta here, lady. Those are the options.'

5.
Cheddar, I had you but you didn't have me...

6.
Raindrops and roses and something and cheddar,
Something and something, the Dutch are much better...
Something and something and something, da dee,
These are a few of my favorite cheese.

7.
They hit you with a blast of hot air just before you step out into the cold air 'cause it makes you have to pee.

8.
Dried nuts! Get your dried nu-uuuts!

9.
Two-twenty for Raisin Bran? You can't beat that. Just ask sturdy Dan Magee.

10.
This is my country,
This is my dog,
This is my wang juice,
This is my truck,
This is my - people putting buggies in the middle of everything
'Cause they suck...


I don't make this shit up, people. I swear.

Uh-oh...


First detubberization update

Oh dear. This will be humiliating.

My progress re the 2007 make-it-or-give-up-on-life project:

Days: 23

Pounds lost: -1 (Yes. Negative one. Went from 317 down to 313 - back up to 318)
Light exercise: 30 minutes walking (Average 1.3 minutes per day)
Proper cardio: 0 (That's 0.0 minutes per day)
Other exercise: Helped a friend move a few possessions. That doesn't really count.

Cheating:
Questionable foods eaten: 5 cinnamon buns, 13 hot dogs, Chinese noodles, pizza (4 times), fish & chips (3 times), 1 giant burrito, 10 Red Bulls, 6 beers, 8 pieces fried chicken, rice (twice), 2 biscuits, 2 boxes crackers, potatoes (3 times), 2 bottles wine, birthday cake, 6 large subs, 2 Coke Blaks, 4 grilled cheese sandwiches, ice cream, pancakes, 3 dinner rolls, 4 chocolate bars, 2 peanut butter and syrup sandwiches (how I wish I were kidding about that), medium popcorn, 2 tomato sandwiches

Verdict: I'm an absolute loser - obviously.

Words written: approx. 16,000 (absolutely pathetic. No less than 1000 per day is excusable)

What can I say? Now that I've spent three weeks learning to track my progress I guess the next step is to actually make some progress and not be quite so much a sloth.

FWG

A television AND a window?

Isn't that some sort of oxymoron? I mean - how could one possess both a television and a window without being compelled to hurl one right through the other?

Okay. So you're probably not in the mood for a rant from a self-righteous anti-TV elitist bastard, are you?

How about a confession instead?

Alright. For someone who's an outspoken TV basher I've been spending an awful lot of time in the boob tube's vicinity lately. Only the NFL playoffs draws me there intentionally but there's a wealth of other temptations this time of year. Hockey, lacrosse and basketball are all in season.

Steve-o's been home a lot lately and can always be found on the couch, TV running - usually the sports channel - while he tends to his various online pursuits - with a laptop that he actually rests on his lap (yes, how quaint) and which has a curious habit of delivering him random yelp-inducing electrical shocks - very much to FWG's amusement of course.

And, you see, I've also been spending much time in the living room lately - either reading books or tending to the massive file re-org project that has occupied many hours of my life of late. I emptied all three drawers of a three-foot-wide lateral file cabinet. We're talking nine feet of files - of which two thirds have now been fed to the recycling bins.

While I'm not taking in any sitcoms or reality shows (thank god) I do have to tolerate all the half-baked nit-wit sportscasters and their half-baked nit-wit ruminations. The real terror though - is the commercials. Dear god. How do you people do it? How do you sit through TV commercials? I swear - with every commercial I see - another handful of my brain cells commit suicide. It's downright alarming. Nowhere is it more apparent that this society of ours is a freak show than on TV commercials (well, perhaps besides church).

I tend to see the same ads over and over again:


Double burgers from McDonalds (or some other McBurger joint, I don't know):

Two morons sit in a car and talk moron talk to each other. The highlight is this joke: "Hey - do you think single burgers are lonely - you know - cause - they're single?"

Do you think that's funny? Do you really? I guarantee you something. If you think that's funny you're either mentally deficient or you're seven. Either way, you should not be roaming the internet without supervision. You'll either get scammed or molested. Now go on. Get out of here and don't come back until you're eighteen.


McCain Fries:

Little boy: "I used to think thunder was the sound of Angels bowling!"

Little girl: "I used to think that you should only eat fries once in a while!"

Well, that ends the debate over gender superiority, doesn't it? Clearly both sexes are equally stone-dead stupid. How often should you eat fries? Never! They have no redeeming value! Transfats or not - don't matter. My brass mailbox has no trans-fats either. That doesn't mean I should nibble on it daily. You eat fries every day and you'll be fat and pimply and you'll never get a date and you'll grow up to be either a rapist or bulimic - depending which stupid gender you are. Now stay away from goddam fries.

McCain Fries... We use only the nicest most pleasant digestible grease. Enjoy... three to five times a day!


Coors Light:

Idiot Number One stands on the second story balcony of a lodge that overlooks a happening party. A can of Coors light is in his hand. Another rests on the railing.

Idiot Number Two saunters out the balcony door, spies the free can of beer and picks it up.

"Where'd this come from?" asks Idiot Number Two.

"It comes from a dream," says Idiot Number One, "A dream that started high in a glacier-fresh mountain top. From a belief that beer could be brewed to taste colder -"

Whoa! Hold it right there! Say no more! I'm sold! Where do I sign up for this belief that Coors Light is brewed to taste colder? 'Cause I'm all about beer that tastes automatically cold thanks to their magical glacier-fresh brewing process. It's brewed by Oompa Loompas and Ice Monkeys right? It's made out of polar bear tears and penguin piss, right? I knew it!

I've been wanting to get rid of my fridge, you see. Make room for a nice Egyptian sarcophagus or a phone booth and of course the only thing holding me back was all these wack-job beermeisters believing that beer should be made to taste warm. Well thank god that's cleared up. Gone is the fridge! Let's put those Maytag fuckers outta business! Three cheers for auto-cold beer!

Morons.


Truck commercials.

You can't have a football game without six hundred and twenty truck commercials. God, how they give me the heebie-jeebies.

A man stands in the pouring rain in a rain-hat that is blue-grey. His face is blue-grey and so is the rain and everything in the background. It's all blue-grey piss-rain-ville here. The rain-man speaks:

"An honorable man is a selfish man. He insists on keeping all of his promises."

Wow. That's beautiful, man. I'm speechless. You should configure church signs for a living. Hey! Try this one! "Nothing ruins the truth like stretching it!" Eh? Eh? Not bad, eh! How 'bout this one - "Got a hand? Lend it. Smiles are free. Spend it!" Isn't that great? It's all good I tell you! It's fun-with-words day, boys and girls! Hey - do this one, rain-man: "Are you a human being or a human... being...?" Ooooh! Deeep! It's all good I tell you! Selling God. Selling trucks. We're all winners baby!

Oh yes. We're all winners.


Toyota Tundra trucks

Oh this is priceless.

"What would happen," asks the unseen young female narrator's voice - and you can just tell that she's cute and sexy - you can just tell - "if we went on a trip and we only made left turns? Where would we end up?"

Wow! A magical mystery tour! What a wild idea, cute sexy girl! Where would you end up? What an intriguing question. Let's see... Maybe... AT HOME!! ASS HOLE!! YOU'D GO IN A FUCKING CIRCLE!!

I swear to god, I want all stupid people killed. I want them all put to death now. And I want stupid TV advertisers put to death three times each. God dammit.


Chevy Silverado trucks

Okay, we've had a little fun here but this one is not funny. Not remotely. This is absolutely disgusting and I'm furious. I want blood. I want to see the responsible General Motors executives lined up and either shot or hung for treason and for crimes against humanity.

Here's the commercial:

They're singing about 'our country'. Automotive manufacturers - that most noble of professions - are defining our country. Both America and Canada almost simultaneously, by the way - the two versions barely differ. For those of us that do not understand Canada - your worries are over. Here's all you need to know. Are you ready for this?

Scene: White boy and white man, both in cowboy hats.
Subtitle: This is our role model.

Scene: White-skinned roughnecks wrestling with big heavy oil-drilling apparatus.
Subtitle: This is our backbone.

Scene: Maritime waves crash against a rocky shore where a lighthouse stands.
Subtitle: This is our backyard.

Scene: White man in plaid shirt rests against a stack of huge logs.
Subtitle: This is our coffee break.

Scene : White kids playing hockey.
Subtitle: This is our philosophy.

Scene: Bobby Orr's face
Subtitle: This is our attitude.

Scene: White man in hunting gear with rifle and a black dog.
Subtitle: This is our wingman.

Scene: White man holds a small blonde-haired white boy in his arms.
Subtitle: This is our purpose.

Isn't that sweet? Aren't you just beaming with pride (if Canadian) or wrecked from envy (if not)? Between the images, text and lyrics there's absolutely no way to interpret that they're talking about Chevrolet specifically or about their customers. They're clearly defining the country.

And here's what they're saying:

Males matter. Females don't.

We're guided by the values of cowboys. Nice! Shoot 'em up, Tex!

The country is built on natural resource industries such as oil and timbre. I have to admit - that's true. Both USA and Canada are raping their resources at a rate vastly beyond sustainability hence - world-leading glory and wealth now for North America and devastated third-world status eventually - if the human race persists long enough - but no worries. Our ancestors will be many generations separated from us by then so why should we care about them? Oops! Tangent. Sorry.

The maritime provinces are our back yard. Okay. So BC is the front yard? What is Ontario? The car-port entrance? You know - both the original Canadians and the British invaders came in through the Atlantic. Wouldn't that make the maritime provinces the front yard? Or are we just trying to say that Newfies belong at the back of the bus? Hm.

What else? Our philosophy is hockey. That's cool. I'm a big hockey fan. I love sports. That they're a completely calculated contrived and manufactured drama and not a drama of any meaning or substance whatsoever is okay. That doesn't make sports bad or not worthwhile. It's still a great pastime and a perfectly valid entertainment. And it provides a much more productive outlet for the inherent tribalism and bloodlust still rampant in the dominating less-evolved population than war and gang activity - so that's certainly good. That most men are duped into a purely delusional transference of ego that chains them to a perpetual child-like mentality is extremely unfortunate but let's not talk about that right now. I still struggle with that myself a bit now and then and it's embarrasing frankly. The point - it would be nice if our nation had a philosophy of substance rather than one of contrivance and delusion. Oh well.

Bobby Orr is our attitude. Not sure what that means. I guess we like to race end-to-end single-handedly and score the big goal and once the puck is safely in the net, leap into the air and mock a superman pose. I don't know. Works for me I guess. Whatever.

Ah - the wingman. Yes, of course. No discussion around the values of nations is complete without considering the wingman. Assuming the Canadian population is made up primarily of fighter jet pilots and overgrown adolescent boys seeking to deceive girls in order to bed them - the subject of wingmen is relevant. And ours is a big black dog which will fetch the bird you just shot dead. Isn't that nice?

And just in case anyone's still reading this self-indulgent rant - here's the kicker. Here is the crown of Canadian glory. Our purpose. Our purpose is to breed blonde-haired boy babies. That's right, folks. Screw immigration! We want little blonde-haired boy babies that grow up into big blonde-haired boys. The superior breed! We'll slip them into their jackboots and goose-step them right on up to the podium!

Okay, folks. I realize that this is not some kind of propaganda. I realize the obvious marketing strategy that evolved something like this:

Now boys, Who buys trucks mostly?

Um - stupid-ass Caucasian duck-hunting sports-watching wife-beating bigoted macho cowboy manual-laboring rednecks?

That's right. Now incorporate all of that into a commercial that makes them feel like all these things are normal - heck - patriotic even - and play 'em during all them there football games! Heee haw! Let's build us some trucks boys! Heee haw! Pass me the bourbon and one o' them ceeegars!


I will never ever ever own a GM product again. Not even if you paid me.

FWG

Smashing on the dash: A homage to Flumadiddle

Have you read Flumadiddle yet? She’s a champion blasphemer, possibly even the antichrist. And her dissertations on rednecks and Jesus freaks and an Arkansan existence are an absolute riot.

Warning: If you’re at all religious and like yourself that way, do not dare to read further.


And now - Volume two of FWG's 'Dr. Seuss on Chrystal meth' poetry series for deranged/psychotic children -- this one dedicated to Flumaddidle:

Smashing on the Dash

Are you weary of that dreary little priest and all his chanting?
Would you rather skip his blather or at least dissolve his ranting?
Do you wonder does he fiddle with those little alter lads?
Does this standing-sitting-kneeling numb the feeling from your ‘nads?

Are you one to trace a face in such a place as bathroom walls?
Does your Lord appear to leer at you from tiles in bathroom stalls?
When your bag of peases freezes is that Jesus in their midst?
Is that Mary on your derriere or just a hairy cyst?

Is that Moses striking poses in the soup stain on your table?
Do you find these sightings frightening? Are you mentally unstable?
Do you crave your savior such that your behavior has gone rash?
When your campfire has expired is His image in the ash?

Are you stressing and confessing that these blessings make you sour?
Will these preacher’s teachings reach you when you face your final hour?
Do you fear to not adhere, lest it clear your path to hell?
Well don’t worry ‘bout God’s fury. This is what I’m here to tell.

There are better beasts than priests at least, to give your soul to steer.
There are better pests than pederasts to whom to lend your ear.
There are better ways to spend your days than slumping in a pew.
There are better things to do, it’s true and here are but a few:

Go roam the streets of Rome. Maybe try to grope the pope.
But don’t get caught at that a lot. They’ll swing you from a rope.
Let’s go stumble through the jungle. Let’s go slashing through the gash.
Go sloshing down to Washington. Go crashing Bush’s bash!

Is the bible really viable? Let us spin a better story.
We’ll drive Beemers with blasphemers down the road to purgatory.
Take that auto Colorado bound where fashion’s unabashed,
Where that faggard, Teddy Haggard lives. He’s stashing all the cash!

Read a little Flumadiddle while laughing off your ass.
Try some Eeeeekkk or Magnet Freak. Their chatter is a gas.
Take a toke or snort some coke. Try mashing up your hash.
Let’s fill craters full of ‘taters. We’ll go splashing in the mash!

Leap the brink and sink a drink. Go thrashing up a splash.
Jump the hump into the dump. Go dashing through the trash.
Drop your hoard below the board. Go lashing down the stash.
Buy a ChristBud from the Price Club. He’ll look smashing on your dash!


There you go. I hope there’s not a hell ‘cause if there is they’ve got a special seat reserved for me for sure.

FWG

Steve-o's quotes of the day

The following quotes were taken from the roommate, Steve-o over the last 36 hours. The italicised words were sang. Quotes in regular text were spoken.

1.
Word.

2.
What’s shakin’ dude?

3.
I got the JOY JOY JOY JOY down in my pants!
DOWN in my pants!
DOWN in my Pants!
I got the JOY JOY JOY JOY down in my pants!
DOWN in my pants TODAY!

4.
Errg! Errg!


5.
A little bit of cream makes the office pass go down...

6.
What brain? The only thing in his head is a squirrel jerking off with a Sears catalogue.


7.
What’s with Baldie McPluckinheimer over there?

8.
Two scoops of raisins and those nutritious flakes of bran… make me a happy man...


9.
That’s not what I meant, wiener-ass.

10.
I hate the All-star game!
The sucky sucky nut-suck all-star game.
The sucky sucky nut-sucky
Sucky sucky sucky-nutty all-star game…


This is what I live with.

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #27b

Or in it, for that matter.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom without advice from a physician. Do not take orally unless served warm and with a nice plum sauce on the side.

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #27

The Five Second Rule does not apply when you've dropped your sandwich behind the toilet.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom without advice from a physician. Do not take orally.

Still cranky

By the afternoon the mood hadn’t improved much. I had a lunch date with Rockin’ Roddie. He proposed a new Indian food buffet restaurant he’d recently discovered. Surely this would be the cure.

“Sweet,” said I. “I loves Indian buffets.”

We arrive at the joint. Big place. Big parking lot. Only one other car. No problem. It’s early yet. Not quite twelve o’clock.

Something is wrong. Out of place. It takes me a moment to comprehend it. It’s a big sign that reads:

100% VEGETARIAN

??

“Um… Rod?”

“Hm?”

“What – what’s that?”

“Eh?”

“Rod.”

“What?”

“What’s with the sign?”

“What sign?”

“That doesn’t apply to us, does it?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me that doesn’t apply to us.”

“Oh – that sign?”

“Rod...”

“Um – surprise…”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Just trust me, okay?”

“ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME!”

“Just give it a chance, okay?”

“I don’t believe this,” I’m whining. We’re out of the car. I’m following him across the parking lot. “I can’t believe this. After all we’ve been through.”

“It’s good, FWG. I promise.”

“Don’t do this, Rod.”

“It’s good. Trust me.”

“Have you ever seen me eating Indian food without meat? Ever?”

“Have you ever tried it?”

Silent pouting. We’re entering the building.

“I hope you’ve accomplished all you wanted to in this life, Roddie,” I hiss in his ear, “Cause you are this close to checking out. THIS CLOSE!”

“I know.”

I feel a small pang of guilt. I think he’s actually a little afraid at this point.

Inside, a very nice polite woman dressed in colourful sari invites us to choose any table. Oddly Rod chooses the one that is strangely centred out under some kind of gazebo-like architectural structure. This way we’ll be the centre of attention when I tire of the curried peas and go for his jugular. There’ll be plenty of witnesses to later finger his killer.

I wear a scowl as we approach the rather large buffet. Sari lady follows us. Roddie stops at the salad section and I pass on by, resisting the urge to give him the Gordie Howe elbow.

There’s a very large selection at the main counters. The first two items are labeled ‘Sweet Dish’ according to the post-it-note tacked overhead. I take a very small sampling of Pinkish Shreds o’ Mush and ignore the Bobbing For Testicles for now.

Note: There are no other labels at this buffet other than ‘Sweet Dish’ for these two items so I’ll have to make up my own names for all this stuff as we go along and I’m not even apologizing for it. So there.

I raise the plate to my face, trying to smell the Pinkish Mush Shreds.

“That is sweet dish,” says Sari lady, smiling kindly. I’m too miserable and/or stupid to realize just yet that sweet dish means dessert. Duh.

I give her a brief humorless smile in return.

Her finger moves back and forth between the Pink Mush and the Bobbing for Testicles. “Sweet dishes,” she says.

‘Can it, lady. I’m not in the mood’

I move on. The plan is to try small bits of everything remotely interesting – in the vain hope I will find one or two things enjoyable to which I’ll return for more.

I take a Patty of Blecch in a Yellow-Grey Bile Sauce and a couple Glumps What Could Resemble Chicken if you Squint in a Gooey Bright Red Sauce. Sari lady insists on staying close – presumably ready to assist in identifying what is a sweet dish and what is not. She keeps standing right in front of whatever item I’m keen to try next. I persevere. I sample a smattering of Reddish-Brown Goop #1 and a dollop of Reddish-Brown Goop #2. I take a samosa and Sari lady points out the samosa sauce which I dip into liberally. I finish off with a couple spongy spheroids in a light brown sauce – let’s call it – Sponge Ball Brown Pants.

Back at the table we’re given a pitcher of water and a basket of naan bread with baked-in garlic. Very nice.

The Blecch Patties, Mushy Pink Shreds and Reddish-Brown Goops #1 and #2 all heartily fail to impress.

However…

The Sponge Ball Square Pants resembles butter chicken but with balls of sponge instead of chicken. Between that, the samosa , the naan bread and the squint-chicken glumps I enjoy a very satisfactory second course and leave the restaurant very full, festively plump and kind toward Rockin’ Roddie once again.

All’s well that ends without a crucifixion.

FWG

Cranky FWG

I was a bit grumpy today. Here's my first interaction with another human being this morning. I warn you - it was 9:05 AM and I was still half asleep.

FWG's Boss: "Good morning - oh - hey - you got your ears lowered!" (I got a haircut last night. Whoop-dee-do.)

FWG (With a momentary look of utter disgust as he swivels in his chair to address the intruder): "Yeah well - I asked to have monster truck tires installed but they couldn't do that. So I just got the ears lowered."

FWG's Boss (his turn to look momentarily utterly disgusted): "What? That doesn't make any sense!"

FWG: "It's makes just as much sense as getting my ears lowered. You started it."

FWG's Boss: "Mm. Yeah - I guess you're right."


That pretty much sums up our relationship - and I mean that in a good way.

Hoo haw! Illustrated again!

Hey! Ye Olde Blogging Company is letting me post images again! Three cheers for Ye Olde Blogging Company!

Hip hip hooray! Hip - Okay, one was enough.

To celebrate this fine occasion I am posting here a photo of two of my favorite things in the whole world (friends and intimate partners excepted).

Will you get anything out of this photo?

I expect not.

Was there really any point to this lame-ass posting?

Not really. Shits and giggles.

So why did I do it?

Because I can, Grasshopper. Because I can.

I can't live without you, Bernadette

On CBC radio, during this morning’s drive they did a piece on tech trash, largely concerning Apple’s strategy of designing iPods to be disposable and non-repairable - destined for the most part, for third-world countries. Ostensibly we pay them to recycle. Ostensibly they do not incinerate hazardous materials to the detriment of their citizens.

CBC found a renegade iPod repair shop and did some interviewing there. A customer, Allison, was asked, “What kind of iPod do you have?”

“I’m not sure,” said Allison, “A Mini - I guess? It’s pink and her name is Bernadette. And I couldn’t imagine living without her.”


It’s pink.

It's name is Bernadette.

I’m intrigued. I had no idea this sort of thing was going on. Perhaps I shall special-order one of these iPod creatures. I shall request one that is Jade green, who is smug and cynical and is named... Hm... Mr. Noob.

Or perhaps I shall just contact my commander and request reassignment to a different planet.