july 12 2000
my boss--rather, one of my bosses--is eminently likable. well, they're both eminently likable, but the particular boss of whom i now speak merits a good deal of discussion, mostly because he should have his own abc sitcom. or maybe cbs. the point is, he's not cosmopolitan and cheekboney enough for nbc, and there's a drew carey/king of queens lunky misanthropy that makes him a personal favorite of mine. basically, all you have to do to win my trust is hate people. no, that can't be right, because that would open the door for sudanese warlords, and i know i'm not supposed to like them. okay, fine. sudanese warlords, come on in and grab a plate; there's arroyoz con frijoles on the stove. but if i find any emaciated corpses behind the turntables we gwan have problems, understand?
back on topic. see, my boss engages from time to time in rather curious outbursts. i don't know exactly what triggers them, so the best i can do is put the monkey-shakespeare theory to test by constantly pushing his buttons until the right seemingly innocuous statement sets off a diatribe that would make hunter s. thompson blush. most of the time the screeds are directed at people in the office, which makes things even better. today's ended with the memorable statement "how about instead of calling me 'bro' or 'pal' or telling me how cool i am you get off your fat ass and do your fucking job?" things like this send my coworker and i into peals of girlish laughter. not that i normally dance like a girl; in fact, my laugh sounds like the jolly green giant's, except instead of a hyperenunciated and melodic "ho! ho! ho!" it's a more diffuse tradtionally laughy sound. anyone whose laugh sounds like they're saying "ho! ho! ho!" just isn't to be trusted. except, you know, santa.
in other news, if you haven't been by recently, sparky totally overhauled his site. now, i know that there exists in this world a certain myth, and it's a pernicious one indeed. pernicious. what a ridiculous word. anyway, this myth is pernicious, and it has to do with the idea of the archetypal fastidious gay man. i'd just like to point out that sparky has the most disgusting handwriting i've ever seen. if your mother took some horrible medication and your hands sprout from your shoulders--hell, even if you don't have hands at all, but instead lay claim to some sort of quasi-humanoid differentiated nubbins flapping around at the end of your arms--you wouldn't be able to affect the kind of unrepentant scrawl that sparky proudly displays. he has once and for all punctured the fastidious gay man myth, and for that we should all applaud him. he's still gay, though, so don't call it a sellout, or we gwan have problems. actually, he wants you all to know that he lives in a basement apartment that's only been mopped once in an entire calendar year. also, he doesn't know how to make a souffle. i mean, i don't really believe that last part, but hey, let's indulge him. okay, sparky, you're slovenly. a slovenly gay man. smirk. don't you know stereotypes exist for a reason?
here i feel compelled to let you know that i've opted to delete a much longer and more tasteless version of the preceding paragraph. it involved the phrases "spouting off" and "glory hole" in a most unholy combination. you see? you see? proven can have taste when the kiddies are around.
to recap: hyperenunciated and melodic "ho! ho! ho!". quasi-humanoid differentiated nubbins. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter