ka-pow!

11.3.2k2
Thursday, 21 November 2002

My dad told me a story about a job interview he once had. He said it was going well, as a friend of his was the HR director and was conducting the interview, and the other stuffed shirts in attendance seemed at friendly and slightly less formal than the situation suggested. My pop was a corporate labor lawyer and he was interviewing at Chicago’s biggest fireworks manufacturer’s headquarters. This outfit produced the popular Martian Starbursts, the Incandescent Swarms and the crowd-favorite Flaming Ass Ponys, and while it was very successful, its factorys were rife with worker’s comp cases. They needed someone with a lot of experience and my dad had a ton. The interview was coming to a close, or perhaps it was over and some smalltalk-pleasantries were being exchanged, hands were being shaken and such, when, quite naturally my dad said the word "fuck." His HR-pal went white and someone ripped the needle across the record; s c r e e c h i n g the post-interview gab session to a halt. I stopped my dad’s account of the situation and asked him the context of his usage. He’s got an interesting way with words at times and he said something like: "Well I didn’t goddamn say I wanted to fuck the old guy’s wife or anything. Not even, 'I’ll git them slacker-fucks for ya.' No. It was 'Fuck yes, I think the Bears look bad.' Not my problem the guy’s some Christian anti-abusive-language ... um ... 'fuck'" I had to laugh. Then he said he's glad he got the info about the undocumented No Swearing policy. Had he been hired he'd have had to quit. He said something like, "I wouldn't work a day in a place where you couldn't say fuck." I agreed. Shame about all them fireworks, though.

Tonight Molotov's.
Whole bunch of new folks on the list tonight. Work mates. They say fuck every other word. Thank fucking Christ.
The venue has lots of booze and a killer juke. Bring yr friends. I know I will. The cell will be on. See you there! bye-ee!

Break

11.2.2k2
Thursday, 15 November, 2002

It is that very special time of year that all Americans should feel strongly both the Holiday Spirit and the call to War. Being your close-to-average American household, my roommate pals and I sure have been feeling that familiar feeling; so much so indeed that Fats, Porkchop and I have instituted the Call-Up to Active Duty. For the interim, delightful friends,

Lt. Fats,




PFC Porkchop



and my self-appointed Burger-Meister–Self,

Meisterburger TNSC Robot,



have, as your typical all-volunteer Army, dedicated ourselves to the defense of our late-months Holiday/War rights and made ourselves available to the local/state/feds as Defenders of the Sacred Holiday/War Trust. Do yrselves a fav and, y’know, do the same. Dig out them helmets, bayonettes, scowls and mistletoe. Beat yr chests and cry Havoc/Advent and Let fly the Dogs of War-/Elves of Yuletide-Greetings.

I can’t believe any this shit.

After the hard day, meet the good ones at the bar.

Bring yr pals, I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!

SAAB

11.1.2k2
Thursday, 07 November 2002

I got a car named Piggy and Piggy seems to have a problem counting things. Standard things, like miles. She’s been stuck on 81474 for as long as I’ve known her, and all told, that’s a while. Now she’s not totally given up on counting, as her Trip Odo is s l o w l y counting off something. Two, three, four trips across the Bay Bridge and back and I just notice that the half-four has become a half-five. I have an idea as to what she’s counting: I figure she’s counting the tens of minutes between me cussing out some dipshit driver or another. What? Me cuss out a dipshit driver? You must not never had rode in a car with me up Pine Street.

Tonight we visit Miss Annie. Yea, though we’ve been here before, some folks like to park cars and there’s parking all over this place.

Bring yr pals, I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!