New Year's Resolution: I'm Not Going To Pay A Lot For This Muffler

I used to have this really hot temper, and I used to fly off the handle a lot. But then I got sick and mellowed out. This was generally a good thing, as I stopped getting into (and subsequently often losing) fights and started getting along better with my friends and family. It's been a few years now though, and it's starting to kinda suck a little bit. Because while I'm much more calm than I used to be, I've also started letting people walk all over me.

That shit is going to stop.

Don't get me wrong. I don't intend to become an asshole. But I do intend to speak up and stop rolling over.

Would examples work? Ok.

A few months ago I was picking up my prescription and the pharmacist fucked it up. This always happens. But this time he offers up this excuse: "I had it right when I left the other day, but these goddamn foreigners working here on the weekends screwed it up, you know?" Dear Whitey, 2005 bryc3 just shrugged that off. 2006 bryc3 is going to say, "I don't appreciate your insinuation that I share your ignorant, racist beliefs. Cunt."

Want some more?

Dear Mrs. Talking On Your Cell Phone, you can't merge. I see what you're doing, sneaking up in your Ford Expedition to the very last second in the merge lane. It's cute, but you're not getting over. Hit me, I dare you. We can explain it to the cops together. Hell, we can even call them on your goddamn cell phone. Tell them it's 2006 bryc3 on the line, they're going to be seeing a lot of me this year.

Dear Ms. Can't Be Bothered, would it have fucking killed you to hold the door open for me? You walked through two seconds before I did and you didn't so much as glance backward or push it open a little more as you passed through. 2006 bryc3 is calling you out on that.

Dear White 2004 Honda Accord with Texas Tags That's Been Parked Illegally In The Handicapped Spot In My Arlington Apartment Complex, you might be interested to know that 2006 bryc3 is the one that keyed your car the other night.

Dear Nationals Ticket Holders In Section 470 At RFK, you might want to cover your childrens' ears. 2006 bryc3 is going to be telling out of town fans like it is. To the ushers at RFK stadium- the other guy started it.

Dear Coworker, when you ask me where I go out and I say I go to a lot of shows, that's the end of that conversation. Don't ask who do I go see, and then explain you used to go to a lot of Dave Matthews concerts. Because if you do, 2006 bryc3 is going to tell you what he thinks of people who used to go to a lot of Dave Matthews shows. And then you're probably going to cry.

Dear 2005 bryc3, stop being such a sissy. Sack up, bitch.

Dear Paramedic, I'm allergic to iodine and my health insurance card is in my wallet. And do me a favor? When my girlfriend shows up to pick me up, just say, "You should see the other guy." Thanks.

Daddy #3? Yeah No

My parents got divorced last week. This isn’t sad. It’s been years in the making and comes as a surprise to no one. They got married when I was two years old. My mom had me with Daddy #1 and split shortly thereafter. She started dating Daddy #2, an old flame, when she was still pregnant with me. Daddy #2 had several redeeming qualities Daddy #1 did not possess, including: 1) a job and 2) a checking account. When you’re seventeen years old and pregnant and on welfare, this is apparently all you can hope for. They may have been in love at some point, although nobody can really remember when. They dated for two years then decided to get married when (again, surprising no one) my mom got pregnant again.

The thing is they stayed together for years and years. They never had one of those obnoxious, head over heels loves you’re supposed to have, but they raised the kids (the last one, my brother, came when I was five) and didn’t kill each other. They even got along, although there certainly weren’t any fireworks. Very early on Daddy #2 became just Dad, and the kids liked it that way thank you very much.

Sometime around the time I graduated from high school my mom got tired of Daddy #2 and started dating one of Daddy #2’s employees. The fact that this embarrassed everyone involved apparently didn’t matter to my mother. Neither did the fact that this guy was a complete tool (he was a computer technician in literally every sense of the word) and only a few years older than me. She swore up and down she was in love, and she made Daddy #2 pack his shit and get out. There are more details, but it’s a bit hazy. I was very, very stoned at the time. Who wasn’t? I was eighteen. So, doing the math, Daddy #2 left when I was eighteen and the divorce became finalized last week. Apparently it took them twelve years of living in separate houses and dating different people before they were sure about things.

Daddy #2 has been with one woman this whole time- he lives with her and her college-age daughter. My mom has bounced from man to man, looking for Daddy #3. I thought that was bad. But now that she swears she’s found him I’ve realized I really don’t want any more Daddies.

I just got back from spending Christmas with them at her place. This was the last chance for me to make up my mind about him. He’s rubbed me the wrong way from the start, but I love my mother so I figured I’d give him another go. Yeah, he sucks.

There’s no way to sugar coat this- my mom is fucking crazy. Not in a cool, inspiring-sympathy Mommy Dearest kinda way. More in a drama queen, publicly humiliating kinda way. She’s the nicest and most considerate person in the world, but there’s no denying she’s an absolute trainwreck.

She’s gone over the top for this guy. On the surface he seems okay- a bit older, divorced, wealthy, clean criminal record. But once you get to know him he’s simply an intolerable asshole. You know that guy who makes really stupid jokes you’ve heard a million times, then punches you in the ribs over and over keeps saying “You get it?” until you grit your teeth and admit that yeah, you get it? He’s that fucking guy. He’s also the guy that feels he needs to relate to me, like he’s worried his impending marriage to my mother my derail if I don’t approve.

Hey buddy, I’m thirty years old. I know what people who are ‘in love’ do to each other in the bedroom. You’re the guy that’s having sex with my mother that isn’t my father. I don’t care about your opinion about anything. Keep spending money on her and be there for her so I don’t get the drunken, hysterical phone calls at 3am when my latest potential Daddy fucks off. Just leave me alone and do whatever it is you two wanna do. You and I don’t want me to have to kill you, but we both know I will.

You get it?

Idiot Tax

Last Monday I started off on the wrong foot. I'd had a long weekend and never really got a chance to relax. My girlfriend's mom was in town, and it was my first chance to meet her. Everything went fine but it was definitely stressful. By Sunday night Baby and I were at each other's throats from dealing with the pressure so I never got an opportunity to just unwind.

I left my apartment in Arlington at about 7:15, bound for my office in Reston. I have a reverse commute, so I take the Dulles Toll Road and don't worry about the HOV restrictions. Only I got to about Route 7 and realized I had forgotten my laptop at home. Bitter. I turned around and headed back toward town, calling Baby on my cellphone in the meantime to bitch.

Right as I'm passing the exit for 123 I remember the Toll Road is HOV inbound in the mornings. But at that point it's too late to stop. I say to Baby, "Man, it's really going to suck if I get a ticket to boot." Sure enough, not ten seconds after the words leave my mouth I see the state trooper, lights on, in my rearview. Great.

He comes up to my car and says, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" I smile and say, "HOV, right?" I then explain that I normally reverse commute, that I'm aware of the law but was flustered because I forgot my laptop, and that I've never been pulled over for HOV before. He seems sympathetic, but he's a fucking cop and I have never talked my way out of a ticket for anything. You'd think being honest would be a good idea, but it's honestly never worked for me. Next time I'm playing the cancer card, because the current strategy ain't working.

After he's written the ticket he walks back and explains he's sorry but he has to give me a ticket and blah blah blah. You know the drill. He tells me I have the right to contest it in court (what kind of asshole does that?) or just pay the fifty dollar fine. He also advises me that the fine for subsequent offenses increases drastically. I then ask him what I'm supposed to do next, as I have to drive on the HOV lane for several more miles before I can get to an exit and get off. I explain that I don't want to get another ticket. He laughs at the possibility. Great. Even the cops laugh at the idea that 99% of the fucktards that willfully violate the HOV restrictions get away with it. I drive away and curse my luck, certain that I'm going to get pulled over again. Luckily I do not.

Later that night I show the ticket to Baby in disgust. Baby, being the genius she is, looks over it carefully and points something out. The time on the ticket says 9:00, but the cop has checked PM instead of AM. The inbound Toll Road is HOV only in the morning, not the evening. He checked the wrong box by mistake! I'm stoked, I can beat the ticket. "Why Your Honor, surely there has been some mistake. I obviously could not have been in violation of the HOV restriction at 9:00 PM. I am a law-abiding citizen." But then I start to wonder if that's going to work. Will the judge realize the mistake and fine me anyway? Can he even do that? What are my rights? Surely I can't be charged with something I probably did, can I? The only evidence that documents the offense says I didn't do anything wrong. Baby, in yet another stroke of genius, suggests that maybe the cop really did feel sorry for me, and he deliberately 'accidentally' checked the wrong box to give me a way out if I bothered to read the ticket!

So now I don't know what to do. Do I spend the day at traffic court trying to beat a fifty dollar ticket (and remove the risk of paying an even bigger ticket if I screw up again), or will that backfire because the judge can still fine me? Can I honestly keep a straight face in court? Or can I flaunt the mistake and refuse to pay? Or should I just suck it up and pay the fifty dollar idiot tax?

Boricua 4 Life!

So I've got a hangover. Not a terrible one, but just enough to annoy the hell out of me. Just enough that I can't be bothered by incompetence, especially my own. Unfortunately, I got out of the retarded side of bed this morning.

I subscribe to Yahoo's LAUNCHcast music thing. It's a form of internet radio. I have the upgraded, subscription service. It's worth it. You can fine tune it (sort of, see below) to play the types of music you want, and it actually has an amazing amount of variety. It has its share of bugs and glitches, but its a godsend at work.

My cubicle buddy and training partner is out of the office today, so I was lucky enough to be able to head straight to my desk, turn on LAUNCH, and pretend to get to work. Things were going fine for about forty five minutes. LAUNCH was playing good songs and no one was bothering me. I guess it was about 8:30 when things started going downhill.

One of the best things about LAUNCH is you can skip as many times as you want. The software continually 'recommends' songs you might like based on your preferences, and if you get a dud you can just skip it. I love this, as few stations let you do it. But excessive skipping tends to make the application act buggy, and sometimes crash altogether. Not the end of the world, as you can just fire it up again.

One of the worst things about LAUNCH is that it often 'recommends' complete fucking crap. When it actually recommends something good, it will show a message that reads "This song is popular with fans of (insert band or record)." These are things I can deal with. What I cannot stand is the messages that say "This song is popular on LAUNCHcast." You can only imagine the shit that passes for popular. So even though I've banned country, rap, pop, and god knows what else I still get the occasional tracks that make me weep for the future of music. If I've got bands like Fugazi and Minor Threat rated highly, can't LAUNCH pretty much assume I'm going to hate everything on the country, pop and urban charts? I mean, can that be that hard to figure out?

Sitting in my cubicle this morning, I'm happily wasting the first hour of work rocking out to my emo cryfest when some horrible Latino hip hop song comes on. I'm nearly deaf, so I've got the volume turned up very high and the change in music is startling (and disappointing, and frustrating). I understand that this new kind of hip hop is getting very popular, but it's probably safe to say thirty year old white emo guys are not the target audience. I fumble to bring up the correct window so I can ban the song and artist (of course the genre is already banned- thanks LAUNCH).

I skip the song and the goddamn thing glitches. I get a Windows error and the application closes, but the fucking song is still playing! I bring up the processes window and can't see the fucking thing running, yet it's still blaring in my headphones. I take them off, and I've got the volume up so loud I can still hear the song. I'm very professional at work, and I'm embarrassed that my nearby cubicle mates can hear what I'm listening to. I'm sure they can hear my punk stuff sometimes, but I can live with that. What I can't live with is the image of the old white guy pumping the hip hop. I loved this stuff when I was a kid, but that was damn near fifteen years ago. Like I said before, it doesn't quite speak to me like it does to my younger amigos.

So I mentioned I'm hungover, and it doesn't occur to me to turn down the system volume. Instead I get the bright idea to reach behind my laptop and unplug my headphones. I would like to stress that this was a very bad decision. By default the laptop switches to its external speaker, so now I'm broadcasting Spanish profanities at full volume to everyone in my department. Suddenly 8:30am in Reston becomes the Boogie Down Bronx. I panic, and reach behind my laptop to try to plug the headphones back in. I'm already shaky from last night's Budweisers, and the embarrassment doesn't help. Heads begin to appear over my cubicle walls. I finally plug the fucking things back in. I don't even bother to explain what happened, I'm too busy counting the seconds 'til five o'clock.

Staff Directory

Kathryn's post a few days back about Miltons got me thinking about other work types that are common to every office. A few of my favorite characters:

He Was Here A Minute Ago...

For the life of me, I cannot figure out what you do all day. You stop by your cubicle about twenty minutes late, bitch about traffic, drop your things, and then disappear. You pop back in throughout the day to check your email and your voicemail, then you disappear again. Where do you go? And when do you actually do your job?

Senior Analyst, Germ Distribution

OK, I get it. You are very dedicated to your job. You obviously feel that you're so important that you simply cannot take a sick day. I am not impressed. I am pissed. I do not want to hear your grating, hacking cough all day, and I am not interested in contracting your bird flu. Go home already. This is why God invented paid sick leave.

Receptionist/NOVA Student

I need you to make important announcements such as "There is a blue Honda Civic in the parking lot with its lights on" and "The bagels have arrived and are in the kitchen." I do not need elaborate, prosaic emails concerning corporate policy esoteria. And I can certainly do without the daily updates documenting your refrigerator-cleaning projects. I understand that you are simply putting your Word of the Day email subscription to good use, and I appreciate that you've bookmarked www.thesaurus.com, but I feel compelled to remind you that the "All Staff" list in the email directory is not to be abused. You are not nearly as important to this company as you think you are. There is a reason I cannot remember the name of the person who was doing your job three weeks ago.

Situational Profanity

"God fucking damnit, traffic fucking sucked this morning. I got stuck behind the biggest asshole in the world. They should pass laws to keep these fucking idiots off the road. I swear to God, the next...wait, hang on a second, I need to take this. 'Hello, how can I help you? I can certainly take care of that for you! There you go! All set! Is there anything else I can help you with today? Wonderful! Thank you very much, and have a great day! Bye bye!' OK, where was I? Oh yeah, so this fucking asshole..."

I Have A Question

Honestly, how many times do I have to show you how to use this program? Do you not understand that operating your computer, and the myriad programs installed on it, is an integral part of your job? Could I get a job as a jockey if I didn't know how to ride a horse? Then how the fuck did you get a job at an IT company if you don't know how to use a computer?

I Have Another Question

At the end of the meeting, when the boss says, "Does anyone have any questions?" that means "OK, get back to work." It is not a call for you to discuss the intricacies of how this particular administrative change is going to affect your job. The rest of the team doesn't care. I realize that you developed this technique in college, where you dominated entire classes by engaging the professor in utterly pointless arguments that left everyone dumber for having listened. What I want to know is, didn't you notice everyone (including the professor) sighing and rolling their eyes whenever you raised your hand? Do you notice it now? Do you even care? I'm not completely sure about this, but I believe fixing this flaw in your personality might go a long way toward that 'Can't find a girlfriend' problem you've had your whole life.

Windows Key + M

I'm going to catch you. I'm going to figure out whatever it is you're looking at every time I come by your cubicle and you frantically minimize. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one of these days. Please make sure it's worth my suspense.

This Is My Daughter, Madison

There is a reason "Bring Your Daughter To Work Day" only happens once a year. It's because I don't want your fucking children in my cubicle. Work is for grownups. I'm not impressed by your progeny, I'm too busy thanking God my girlfriend doesn't want kids. And spare me the pictures, unless you want to see them on a milk carton.

An Awkward Peesition

I have to pee all the time. In fact, I'm peeing right now.

There are a lot of reasons why I pee all the time, lots of theories including "bryc3 drinks way too fucking much" (obvious) and "bryc3 likes being around other semi-naked dudes" (unsubstantiated, yet persistent). The problem has been exacerbated by Baby's insistence that I drink more water. So every day I bring a bottle of water and down that along with my usual one or three Cokes. So yeah, I gotta make yellow a lot.

The amount of time I spend in the men's room has made me an old pro. I go in, I pee, I leave. I don't make small talk, I don't dick around looking in the mirror, and I'm not the insecure guy who's afraid to use the urinal and waits for the stall. I've noticed a lot of otherwise normal men fall into this last category. I don't understand it. We are all peeing, and nobody is checking you out. I know that some men avoid the urinal because they get stage fright. This doesn't happen to me. I have noticed that as I have gotten older it has taken progressively longer to get things going once I do step up to the urinal, but again my long experience in the men's room has taught me that this is normal with older guys. Just give it time, it's coming out sooner or later.

The other day I'm headed toward the men's room and I notice the distinct voices of our owner and the senior vice president in the hall behind me. I push open the bathroom door and as I look back to hold it for anyone who might be behind me, I notice that they're both headed my way. I'm not stupid, I hold the door for them. So the three of us enter the bathroom together and head for the three urinals.

By default I head for the middle urinal. This is a mistake, as the two men are carrying on a conversation which has continued even as they're unbuttoning their pants. Now they're talking back and forth, and I'm standing there holding my little guy and cursing my infant's bladder for having to pee all the damn time. I'm starting to get nervous, as I realize just how emasculated I am. I am literally caught with my pants down, as these men who control my future at the company are inconvenienced because I'm too stupid to have given them adjacent urinals. I curse myself again for being an idiot.

What can I do in this situation? How can I save face? I'm fairly proud of my urinal etiquette, but these men are obviously not impressed because they're violating the talking rule. They don't care that I have the practiced, eyes-forward method of a seasoned veteran. Should I comment on their conversation? Am I allowed to do that? I did fairly well in business school, but I don't remember any Peter Drucker books on corporate pee strategy. To make matters worse, something seems not quite right. Everything seems to have followed protocol, but something is definitely missing.

No one is actually peeing.

These men are old, probably in their sixties or seventies. It takes them a while. I can respect that. I, however, am just plain nervous. I've got stage fright for the first time in my life. I simply cannot go. And the more I think about it, the worse it gets. The seconds are passing like hours. I'm certain they've noticed this younger guy who is too big of a pussy to pee with the grownups. I can see it all in my head, as they go back to their desks and order their secretaries to write "Inadequate urination, not management potential" in my personnel file. I'm finished, and all because I can't start.

Finally, mercifully, the old bastards get their business started. The noise is enough to mask my lack of noise, and I flush and hurriedly wash my hands and shamefully return to my cubicle, still having to pee. No worries, I'm due back in the men's room in another forty five minutes. But you can make damn sure I'm using the fucking stall.

Grandpa In A Coma (I Know I Know It's Serious)

My grandpa, my dad's dad, is in a coma. The doctors say it doesn't look good. I say, "Good riddance."

I struggled with this a bit the other day when I received the news. I struggled because I wasn't sad, and in fact I was almost happy. Happy that it's finally almost over with. Happy that my father can finally be rid of the bastard. I don't mean to suggest that I was joyful, but I've lost loved ones before and this sure didn't feel a bit like that.

My grandfather is famous- in a minor, local sort of way. If you're from the mid-Atlantic you've heard of him. Two famous companies bore his name, and there was a time in the 80's and 90's when that name was ubiquitous. I could even honestly say that those two companies had a far more reaching impact on their respective industries. They were innovative, very much in the vein of "Why didn't I think of that?" My family has a knack for coming up with ideas like that, and my grandfather started that trend. In that regard I respect him. In just about every other regard he sucks.

He came to this country in the early sixties with almost no money. He built a respectable business in the District and moved out to the suburbs, gradually expanding. In the eighties he jumped on an infant industry and quickly became the biggest in the business. The growth of the company coincided with my childhood, and it was fun to be a kid with a famous family and a famous name. It was also nice to have a dad who got to work and make a very decent living at the company. I (and most other people) figured my family was set for life. We were an institution from North Carolina to New York and all the way out to Cleveland. But the big boys got involved in the industry and started to muscle grandpa out. He was determined to remain the sole owner of the company, and he couldn't compete with the publicly-owned behemoth that was gobbling up market share and to this day dominates the industry. Rather than sell early, he held on and fought, to the grave detriment of the bottom line. A few years later he would sell the company for 40% of what he was initially offered, his ego having robbed him of tens of millions of dollars.

The sale of the company left my father in a precarious position. His salary was slashed, and it could not meet the lifestyle our family had become accustomed to. We were not on the high hog by any means, but we were in for a serious adjustment. We packed up and moved further out into the deep suburbs. My dad was unhappy with the way things had turned out, and pissed to be working for a new company for far less money. He decided he wanted a change, and he needed my grandfather to help.

He begged for the money to buy back a small portion of the original company and begin again, as the company was before my grandfather's idea had taken off. It wasn't easy, and my grandfather was reluctantto give up the cash. Since he had sold the company he had begun to live a lifestyle even more lavish than before, as he now had no work to occupy his time. After enough pleading, he agreed to give my dad the money but wanted to retain ultimate control of the new/old company. Bad move, dad. But nevertheless my dad took the deal and reopened shop, and we had a company again.

After a few years of seven day workweeks and long hours the company hadn't really grown much. Then suddenly my dad stumbled upon an idea. It was so simple, just a minor change to an existing established business practice. But the idea took off like wildfire, and suddenly we were famous again. Orders started pouring in, and the company was growing faster than we could manage. By this time I was old enough to work for the firm, and I took some time off college to help out. This was right in the thick of the internet gold rush, and we were poised to make a fortune. Wary to make the same mistake he had in the past, my grandfather explored the option of an IPO and again I thought my future was set. But seemingly out of nowhere my grandfather sold the company outright, and kept the proceeds for himself. My dad and other members of the company got a small payout, but my grandfather kept the big bucks and stock options. The options would continue to grow in value, and I can only assume that my grandfather's fortune reached astronomical levels. My dad, meanwhile, got dick. My father had done all the work, had come up with the idea and nurtured and slaved over it, while my grandfather spent his days gambling and watching his fortune grow. Yet when it was time to reward my dad for what he had done, my grandfather hung him out to dry. All of this because my dad had allowed him to maintain ownership of the company, a move he had to make in order to buy back the company and provide for his own family.

You can probably guess some of what happened next. The tech bubble burst and grandpa's fortune came back to earth. That stock isn't worth the paper it's printed on anymore, although at least for his sake he sold it long ago. His lifestyle went from lavish to decadent to debaucherous, as he blew untold millions on gambling, women, booze, and lord knows what else. At first he was generous with the family, paying for things like college tuition and medical expenses. But as the money dried up the purse strings grew tighter. He was hell bent on blowing everything he had, and he needed the resources to continue to live the way he grown accustomed to. He cut everyone off save the whores and hangers on.

His health went from bad to worse, and a few months ago he left the States to return to the country where he was born. He left behind a ton of debt and almost nothing of the money he once had. Now he's lying in a coma in a hospital bed in a third world country, draining what's left of his money on medical care that his American health insurance won't pay for. With the big money gone, there is no one left to care for him save the family he fucked over.

So I'm not sad that he's finally going to die. I don't want the bastard to suffer, but I'd sure like him to realize what he's done to my dad. I hope that my grandfather, in his son, sees a man who knows what it's like to be a father to his children. And I hope that, right before he dies, he realizes that for all his success in the business world he will never be half the man my father is. Good fucking riddance.

Root Root Root For The Road Team

Just stop. Stop before you start. You're going to tell me that a)Washington is not a big-time sports town or b) everyone in Washington is from somewhere else. There might be some truth to those statements (more likely the latter as opposed to the former) but I'm sick and tired of hearing them. Just as I'm sick and tired of watching you come to my stadium and root for the goddamn road team.

I just spent the weekend at RFK watching the final Nats series of their inaugural season. I don't have the ability to express in words how much this baseball season meant to me, so I won't even try. Let's just say I'm one of those grown men that gets teary eyed at the very idea that we've got a team to call our own, playing in the stadium where I grew up watching the Redskins. And this weekend was the perfect opportunity to spend a precious final few spectacularly beautiful days with my team. We were out of the playoff race, but Iwas happy to go all the same. We laid down and took a beating, getting swept in our last three at home, and I still wasn't disappointed. These are my Nats, and I would have been overwhelmed with joy and gratitude had we lost all 162 games this season.

I was, however, sick to my stomach at the throngs of Philly fans in attendance. Don't you people know that Philly loses at everything? Look it up. Last Phillies World Series title? 1980. Last Sixers NBA championship? 1983. Last Flyers Stanley Cup? 1980. Last Super Bowl win? Never. You haven't had a decent champion since Rocky, and he was fucking make believe.

Go home. Please, seriously, just go home. You can get to Philly in a few hours and they'd love to have you. I hear they're even polishing the sidewalks so you're less likely to hurt your knuckles as they drag along the ground. You're stoked. Now off you go.

I don't understand the fascination of rooting for the opposing team, especially a hated rival. The Nationals have the Yankees coming to town next year, and I cringe at the thought of all the idiots who will be there to cheer on next year's overpriced, underachieving bunch of hired thugs. If you like your team so much, go back to where THEY play. Why do we tolerate so many people cheering on the bad guys? Where is the drunken fan violence we need to shut these people up? Am I the only one that's pissed off?

My girlfriend raised a very good point the other day. Actually she raises good points every day, usually immediately after I raise bad ones. But the other day she said, "Well, if you moved to Philadelphia would you still cheer for the Redskins?" Seems like a valid question at first glance. On further review it's a lousy question, because the answer is that I will never move to Philadelphia. The Eagles play there, for fuck's sakes! Baby, we're not moving to Philly, NewYork, or Atlanta (no big loss there). And dude, we're not even visiting Dallas.

What can I do to stop this? Do I have to start bringing a crowbar to games? Yesterday a family of Philly morons were sitting behind us, each one fatter than the next. They grew more rambunctious as the game wore on. The icing on the cake was their shrill-voiced, rotund ten year old boy squealing "Let's Go Seahawks" once it became clear the Phillies were going to beat the Nats again. What do I have to do? I considered turning around suddenly and slapping the living shit out of him, clean across the mouth. How do you like that, fatty? Was that worth your $10 ticket? I also mulled over the slightly more dignified "While it is true that your favorite baseball team might be in the playoffs when you wake up tomorrow morning, unfortunately you will be fat and your mother will be a slut every day for the rest ofyour life." Is that what I have to do to convince you that you can't act the way you do in my goddamn stadium? How many of you fucktards do I have to kill?

Am I the only one pissed off?

Here Comes A Regular

I'm not the kind of person that seeks out new bars. You've got to drag me if it's a place I've never been. It's not that I don't like new places, or even that I don't enjoy being in new places. Rather I'm just a creature of habit, and I enjoy myself most when I'm somewhere I know. I also love the idea of being a regular. Being a regular takes time and energy. You have to pay your dues. A very long time ago I decided that I wanted to become a regular at my favorite bar and I succeeded. I didn't formulate a plan or hatch a scheme, I just got drunk there all the time until people started to remember me. I made friends with the staff and a lot of the regulars and before I knew it I was also a regular. Now I've been a regular for so long that I'm old school, and I like that as well.

I count the staff at this place among my friends. I'm genuinely happy to see them and I believe they're happy to see me as well. This is not friendship for the sake of cheap bar tabs and plus-ones to get into the show. This is friendship that comes from hanging out on weeknights and making stupid jokes. It is true that I value getting served first, and I value impossibly low bar tabs. But I think they value knowing that I'm never going to make a fool of myself. I'm never going to make trouble or over-step my boundaries. I think the trick to being a good regular is to never expect to be treated differently. Would you go to your friend's house and expect them to bend over backwards and do you a million favors? Then why would you expect the same from your bartender?

As I said before, my favorite bar is a popular place. On any given night my girlfriend (also an established regular) and I might have ten friends meeting us at the bar or at a show. The first question is always "Who is your tab with?" I'm starting to hate this question. Because that question really means "Hook me up with cheap drinks." So Baby and I have made a decision. We're going to only pay our portion of the tab unless we specifically put others on ours.

Am I being petty? I'm trying to avoid the hassle of collecting money from 76 people after a night of drinking, and I'm trying to let my bartending friends know I'm not trying to take advantage of them. Nevertheless, I know people are going to complain. Does this make me a dick?

This Stupid Job Is The Reason Why I'm Broke, Dick

People like the stories where I do something stupid and everyone points and laughs at me. I usually like those, too. But today people are probably pointing and laughing at me at work, and I don't think it's the slightest bit funny.

I work in a giant maze of cubicles. Clients never visit our office, we go see them. The atmosphere is generally relaxed. The employees have lobbied for years to loosen up the dress code to the point where they can wear jeans to work, but management is steadfast. I honestly don't care one way or the other. Sure, it would be nice to dress down sometimes, but khakis and a polo shirt is not exactly a three piece suit. And frankly, I don't want to see some of these fat asses in their relaxed fit denim monstrosities.

About a week ago management started a campaign to raise money for Katrina relief. The company offered to match donations dollar for dollar, and to sweeten the deal they handed out free 'tokens' for every ten dollars you gave. Tokens could be exchanged for the special privilege of wearing jeans to work any Friday between now and the end of the year. Naturally everyone gave and got tokens, so now we essentially have casual Fridays through the end of the year.

Well, not everybody.

You see, I didn't have any fucking money to give. I'm flat broke. I'm practically a charity case myself. So I just avoided all discussions about the charity campaign last week. I figured it would be over once they stopped with the pep rallies and the email campaign. Wrong. I keep getting asked why I'm not wearing jeans. People are genuinely amazed. It's as if I'm wearing no pants at all.

This morning I went with the very lame excuse of "I already gave before the campaign started." A downright lie, and one I'm not proud of. I've got no qualms about not giving, because I know I would have had I had the money. I also know I would have given immediately, rather than wait two weeks like my coworkers did. But as the day has worn on I've grown progressively defensive. Now I am defiant. "You can't give money to charity when you've got no money to give." Take that.

So I'm feeling pretty resentful. Pretty resentful that the precious allure of blue jeans is what it takes to get people to open their wallets. Pretty resentful that I'm made to look like Scrooge because I can't afford to give anything. And pretty resentful that the company would do something so tacky. This is not exactly altruism at work here. I feel humiliated, but I'm sure glad everyone is comfortable with their shirts untucked.

Life Is Good (Because The Cowboys Suck)

I have trouble describing how much I hate the Dallas Cowboys. I'm fairly satisfied with my vocabulary and my ability to insult others, and yet I still cannot adequately capture my utter contempt for them. The closest I can get is this:

I hate the Dallas Cowboys more than I hate the New York Yankees.

Seriously, it's that bad.

I hate the city of Dallas, the entire goddamn city.

I hate their retarded half-roof stadium, I hate their hot ass cheerleaders, I hate Troy Aikman and Tom Landry and Jerry Fucking Jones.

I hate their legions of mouth-breathing, pick up truck-driving, Coors-guzzling mongoloid, redneck fans. I hate the fact that even the black people who root for the Cowboys are rednecks. I hate the pomposity with which they've declared themselves 'America's Team.' I hate that douchebag who was holding up the sign last night that said "Daniel Snyder May Have Bought The Redskins, But The Dallas Cowboys Own Them."

(OK, maybe they have ONE clever fan)

But I love beating the Cowboys. I live for it. And lately I've been on life support. No one gave us a chance to win last night. My own girlfriend, a diehard Redskins fan, went to sleep and wrote us off. Al Michaels (you ultra-conservative Republican fucktard) had a field day bashing us. We looked dead in the water. But I never lost faith. True, I did spend most of the fourth quarter devising a way to suicide bomb Derek Jeter and Bill Parcells at the same time, but I knew we were going to pull it out. And pull it out we did!

Final score: Karmic Justice 1, Crybaby Bitches 0

Tony Kornheiser Is My Homeboy

I am totally gay for Tony Kornheiser. I think he's riotously funny. And he's smart enough to surround himself with people that are also funny. I listen to his radio show every morning at work, and I try to watch Pardon the Interruption when I can.

This morning he was talking about a power surge at his house that left some of his electronic equipment fried. Among the things he lost was a small TV. Tony is not technologically inclined, so he went on to talk about what he needed in a TV and expressed doubt that he would be able to find it. He also mentioned that he'd been advised to get surge protectors to prevent this from happening again, but confessed to having no idea what surge protectors are.

I wrote him an email giving him advice about what TV and what kind of surge protectors to get. I explained that my family owns a rather famous TV business and we prefer a certain brand. I wasn't looking for a plug, I was more trying to explain that we know what we're talking about. Well, Mr. Tony read my entire email on the air! I was so thrilled that I didn't even mind that he mispronounced my name. I did, however, write him back to tell him that he had also mispronounced the model name of the television, and told him the correct pronunciation and origin of my last name. Then he read that email too! I was beside myself.

Unfortunately, it seems that no one else heard him read it. I expected a flood of congratulatory emails and phone calls. I didn't get a single one. I even called my brother to tell him, and reminded him that he could hear the re-broadcast of the show later in the morning. At this point I don't even know if he rolled out of bed to check it out.

Oh well, I'm not letting that bother me. I'm famous in my own mind today.

I Still Miss You, But I'm On To You

It started out innocently enough. My allergies were bothering me and I wanted cold medicine to help me sleep. Baby had been at my place all weekend and I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. But when I looked in the drawer in my nightstand all the medicine was gone. I was puzzled, but I didn't sweat it. I went to the medicine cabinet. That is where the good drugs are anyway. After taking the good drugs I didn't worry about the missing cold medicine.

Then last week I needed a measuring cup and couldn't find mine anywhere. Again, Baby had been visiting recently.

Finally, Baby had to go visit her 'parents' in West Virginia this weekend.

So now I need relationship advice:

When is it okay to tell a girl that you know about her meth lab?

I Miss You

I was out of town for four days last week, but I cut my vacation short by a day to come home Saturday to see you. We spent every free minute we had together until Wednesday morning, when I said goodbye and you left for work. You got on a plane to visit your parents Wednesday night and I won't see you again until Tuesday. I miss you already.

I've got guy stuff to do. Played basketball last night, going to the Nats game tonight. Gonna visit my old man tomorrow afternoon and may go see the Nats again on Sunday. I've also got plenty of Playstation to play. Doesn't matter. I still miss you.

I'm starting to believe that this is a sign of something serious. I always fall hard and fast, and I've promised myself not to get caught up with you. I went into this with you expecting it to fail, but determined to give it my best shot. Now that we're in deeper than we ever thought we would get, I've moved past "Hey, this could work" and jumped headfirst into "How the hell did this not work sooner?" We fit together so naturally that I could kick myself for not getting off my ass and going after you sooner. But then again, going through all my other relationship disasters makes me appreciate this one even more.

Tuesday can't get here soon enough.

The Other Woman

Baby,

I’ve got a confession to make. I am out of town, that much is true. And I am staying with mom, that’s also true. But I’m not alone. I’m with my other girlfriend, my ex-girlfriend, in a way. I know this is going to upset you, but you’ve got a right to know.

You see, I came down here to visit with every intention of spending time with my family. I was going to hang out with my mom, go see my sister and my nieces, take them to the pool- all that stuff. But the weather has been rainy, and I’ve been stuck in the house. With all this free time on my hands, I was doomed to go back to her. I went hesitantly at first, but she embraced me with open arms and didn’t even mentioned how I left her as soon as I met you.

I feel bad about all of this. I’m thirty, and that’s way too old to be acting the way I have been. I also feel like I’m sneaking around behind your back, so it’s high time I just confessed and let the cards fall where they may. I love her, I just do and I can’t deny it anymore.

But I have been thinking- there really is no reason why I can’t see both of you at the same time. She fills a part of my life that has been neglected since you and I started dating. In the times when we aren’t together I think of going back to her, but I really haven’t had enough time to commit to her. She can be demanding, and it’s especially difficult to be with her because I lose track of time when I am with her. Yet I think I can find a way to juggle you and her together. I don’t want to lose you, yet I feel obligated to her. She has been through so much with me, and she has always been there when I needed her. I’ve kept her from you because I am embarrassed, but I have to finally admit that I need her. She makes me happy and I cannot live without her.

With that in mind, I have to ask you if we can try to make this work together. If we try, I think we can all be happy. So Baby, can we make it work? One big happy family. You, me, and my Playstation. Please?

And You Thought Your Life Was In The Toilet

My toilet has been running for a week or so now. It's not the end of the world, but it keeps us up at night. I've called the property manager and she hasn't returned my calls. I've also taken off the lid and checked out what's going on back there. Looks like a toilet to me. A plumber I am not. So I've just been dealing with a noisy toilet.

This morning I'm getting ready for work and I have to blow my nose. I toss the tissue in the toilet and flush it and walk away. I come back in the bathroom about thirty seconds later and water is coming out of the back of the tank, pouring out on to the floor. Awesome. I grab the trashcan and bathmat and move them before they get wet, and I get towels to put down to soak up the water. Being the inquisitive guy (read: idiot) that I am, I decided to flush the toilet again to see if it does the same thing. Lo and behold, more water. In a stroke of pure genius, I pull the lid off the tank. Water sprays straight up into my face, in a scene straight out of a cartoon.

Like I said I'm no plumber, but I've got a basic understanding of how toilets work. Inside the tank there is a hose that is normally held in place by a plastic tube. Water comes out of the hose and fills the tank, allowing the toilet to flush through the miracle of physics. If it weren't for that tube holding the hose in place, it would spray everywhere. Somehow (perhaps as a result of the toilet running? I don't know) the hose had freed itself of the tube, and was lodged up against it pointing straight up. God himself could not have booby-trapped it any better. My only saving grace is that I did not have my mouth open.

Putting The Emo In Chemo

On August 6th, 2001 I was diagnosed with Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia. I was twenty six years old. I went in to the doctor for a routine checkup and blood test and came out with cancer. Things have not been the same since.

They have been infinitely better.

I was pulverized on the day I found out I was sick. I've struggled with terrible anxiety my whole life, and I was certain that I would never be able to handle cancer. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to die. The five year survival rate for CML was 38%. I have a history of other health problems, and I didn't think I had the physical or mental strength to fight leukemia.

But it turns out that I did have the strength, and it took something as awful as cancer to finally give me the confidence to get my shit together. Four years later I keep my cancer in remission with a remarkable new drug called Gleevec and a steady diet of Budweiser and McDonalds.

In the last four years I've learned that nothing ever turns out the way you expect it to, and that that isn't such a bad thing. Life is full of surprises, and while a large portion of them suck there are more than enough pleasant ones to make life worth living. I have let go of all of the expectations I had about myself, and with that the disappointments of not fulfilling those expectations. I am focused on enjoying myself and taking steps to put myself in the best situation possible. Things don't always work out, but sometimes they do. That approach has made my anxiety a fading memory, and allowed me to look forward to the next great thing to come along instead of just waiting for the sky to fall.

This is not to say that these years have been easy. There have been days when I have been overwhelmed by my sense of my own bad luck, days when I wanted to just stay in bed and cry. But I have realized that I cannot lament the bad cards that I have been dealt without being thankful for the good ones.

So today I am happy. I am happy that I have medicine to take, happy that I have a job and insurance to pay for it. I am happy that I have so many great friends that have stuck by me, and happy that I have had the strength to tell those who were not supportive to get the fuck out. I am happy to be a cancer survivor and not a cancer patient, and happy to appreciate the difference between the two. But mostly I'm just happy.

Kitties or Scouts? Choose Wisely

There have been two rather gruesome stories in The Washington Post recently that have reminded me of a funny story my friend the Prof3ssor (nod, 3tta) likes to tell. He was watching some dumb TV show (maybe The Man Show?) where people were shown a picture of 100 cute little puppies and a dirty old homeless man. The people were then asked which was the greater tragedy, the death of the homeless guy or the death of all the kittens. Nearly everyone answered 'puppies.'

I could make the same skit with the stories from The Post.

Here is the background information:

A woman in Northern Virginia was recently charged with hoarding animals. How many constitutes a hoard? Only 488, spread between two houses. 222 of the cats were already dead, and all but 8 had to be euthanized for being feral. So by my reckoning, that leaves the death toll at 480 dead kitty cats.

Just yesterday I was shocked (Oh come on, these are jokes people! What, too soon?) to read that four Boy Scout troop leaders were electrocuted when, apparently, one of the support poles in the tent they were setting up struck an overhead power line. Death toll: 4 Man Scouts.

So today I am wondering aloud-

What's worse, Kitties or Scouts?

My Insurance Company Wants Me To Be Dead

I am your insurance company's worst nightmare. On the surface I'm ideal. I'm thirty years old, so I am past my reckless "I got drunk and fell down and broke my leg" phase. I'm also not married, so there probably won't be any costly babies or dependents to add to my policy any time soon. And frankly, I should be in the prime of my health. That is the rub. My health is nothing short of calamitous. I'm a marvel of modern medical maladies. I've got no less than three doctors' phone numbers on speed dial, and I can comment with expertise on the relative merits of at least half the emergency rooms in the region. If there is something sticking out where it shouldn't be, I will trip over it. I will find the one carpet tack in your entire apartment to step on, and it will get infected. And you know those genetic booby traps you read about in magazines? The ones that lie in wait in your DNA, watching for the opportunity to kill you? Yeah, I got those. All of them. What can I say? I got problems. And MAMSI, my insurance company, wishes I would just fucking die already and save everyone a lot of paperwork and money.

Outside of my typical mishaps (car wrecks, freak sports injuries, obscure syndromes, etc), I have one big problem that haunts my medical records: Cancer. Not a nice, tidy little "We're just going to cut this one nut off and you're good to go" type of cancer. No, I've got the kind of cancer you whisper about, the kind that kills children.

My cancer is not cheap. I'd be in serious trouble without my medical insurance. My medication alone is almost six thousand dollars a month. Of course that's retail. Mr. Bush, tell me again why I can't import drugs from Canada? Oh that's right, your buddies at the pharms give you fat campaign contributions. My bad. Where was I? Right, expensive.

I have no doubt that insurance companies put cases like mine into a cost/benefit analysis to determine the way they will handle me. I am cutting into their profit margins in the worst way possible. I'm one of those cases that gets put into a file and 'reviewed' every so often to look for cost savings. MAMSI is particularly bad. They look for every opportunity possible to deny coverage. Highlights:

-At least every other month I arrive at the pharmacy to find that my medication isn't covered. They need proof of condition, or a letter from my doctor, or an act of Congress- anything to avoid paying. Once I picked up my medication at Giant and the woman said, "That will be fifty seven eight one." And I said, "Wow, they raised my co-pay?" And she said, "No, that will be five thousand seven hundred eighty-one dollars." Like I have that kind of cash on me. "Do you want that in twenties?"

-Because my medicine is so expensive, they are very strict about how often they disperse it. I can only get it every thirty days. So I have to go to the pharmacy on the day it runs out. I guess this is to prevent me from hoarding it and selling it to the few thousand other poor bastards that are unlucky enough to have my form of cancer, the rarest in it's 'family' and the only one treatable with my medication.

-I have to constantly prove that I have had continuous coverage. By Federal law, insurance companies cannot deny coverage for a pre-existing condition as long as the insured has had continuous insurance coverage. They pull this one all the time. I get a threatening letter that says they're not going to pay for doctor visits because I haven't proved that I'm covered. I keep my letters proving I'm covered on file. I don't fall for that one anymore.

-At some point I will probably need a bone marrow transplant. The place to get this done is the Hutch in Seattle, the undisputed industry leader. The procedure is inherently dangerous (75% survival rate, best case scenario), and even more dangerous in hospitals where the procedure is not performed regularly (<25% survival rate). None of my insurance companies have ever authorized a trip to the Hutch. They want me to get it done at Hopkins. The doctor at Hopkins told me, on no uncertain terms, that I will die if I have the procedure there. This is immaterial to the insurance companies. They won't pay to have the procedure in Seattle, even if I put up all travel expenses and other costs associated with the trip. Why? They've cut a deal with Hopkins, of course.

The bottom line is that they'd get rid of me in a heartbeat if they could. I'm a problem case. But I'm not going anywhere and I'm playing by the rules. The law protects me, and if they're dumb enough to offer me insurance you better believe I'm going to take it. I just want them to know that I'm on to them.

Dear MAMSI,

Fuck you, I'm not dead yet. Pony up the cash. We had a deal.

Love,

bryc3

The Plot (To Burn Down My Office) Thickens

This is turning into the "I hate my job" blog and I'm not going to let that happen. But one last update and then no more for a while. It's driving me crazy as it is.

We had a meeting Friday at 4 (who has meetings at 4 on a Friday?) and my product got absorbed into the larger team. This means that I have to train them on my product and they have to train me on theirs. This also means that the hierarchy established for my product, including the senior position recently vacated by J, has been eliminated. The one saving grace here is that I am the lone remaining 'expert' on my product, so I have some leverage. This might give me a chance to at least demonstrate to the rest of the team that I am not a complete idiot, and that might help when I finally transfer out.

I started my job in March, and in that time I have had three different bosses and three different job objectives. Nice.

Ok, no more bitching about work.

I Don't Want To Buy Or Process Anything Bought, Sold, Or Processed

It's high time for a work update, and I apologize for not doing this sooner.

The honest answer is that I haven't updated because I have no idea what the fuck is going on. My boss is now my ex-boss. Shortly after the episode I wrote about we had a massive organizational shakeup. Somehow she ended up getting promoted. Me and J got moved over under another boss, and he has turned out to be fantastic. But I've grown disillusioned with being on a product that everyone seems to hate, and I'm locked behind J and won't get promoted as long as she is here. But wait it gets worse. I started looking around at transferring (which my company supports) and found someone who was receptive to me moving to their team. I go to J and ask for advice about how to bring the subject up with my new boss, and J tells me that she is transferring, too, and that she just talked to the boss about moving. So now I can't move, because I'm the only one left over here that knows this product. You'd think I'd be stoked, because this means that I can assume J's senior position and get paid more money (think 25% annual), but that may or may not happen because we might reorg again and eliminate the senior position. What the hell am I even doing here? I'm more qualified than these people (in experience, education, professionalism, and age), but I'm not part of the clique. Do I really have to start going to happy hour at Ruby Tuesday with these fucktards in order to get promoted?

-edit- I just taught the spellchecker to learn 'fucktard.' Sw33t!

Oh Emo, I Love You So Much That It's Killing Us Both

Q and Not U announced that they were breaking up late last week. This comes just a few weeks after Engine Down announced that they are calling it quits as well. I've gotten used to this happening lately, as nearly every band I've loved in the last ten years has broken up in the last five. I understand that this is, of course, part of the natural aging process. The members of these bands are (mostly) about my age, and my priorities have shifted and theirs have as well. I can respect that. I also understand that what made a lot of sense musically at 20 just doesn't hold the same urgency at 30. Many of these guys have expressed an interest in working on other musical projects, and it's safe to assume that what they're trying to say is, "I'm tired of shouting on stage all night for gas money, I need to work on my rock opera."

But I'm beginning to wonder if this break up phenomenon isn't part of something larger, some fundamental change in music. Independent rock and roll music in the DC area has been primarily defined by a specific sound- an angry, loud, aggressive style with an eye on rhythym and structure that could turn even the most noisy song into a catchy tune. I don't have the talent or the background to describe the history of the DC music scene with any accuracy, and that has already been done terrifically anyway, but I do feel like a brief description is necessary. Rock and roll in DC, specifically punk, hardcore, and indie rock, is about emotion and musical sensibility. It's about making you think and moving your ass at the same time.

Or should I say, it was about those things. We've lost nearly every band that embraced those ideals.

And I can't help but notice that as the genuine articles are packing it in and taking day jobs, the airwaves are choked with so-called 'emo' bands that sure sound a hell of a lot like my music. Now granted, the production is ten times better and the boys in the band are a lot cuter, but if you can't hear DC in this major label crap then you're either in denial or you're not paying attention. These kids grew up on Fugazi and Jawbox, and they've melded it with Green Day and Nirvana. They've glossed over and perfected a style that was deliciously imperfect and edgy when it was being played here. It's like someone recorded the sounds of the Wilson Center, Fort Reno, and the Black Cat, put it into a computer and polished it up, and out came Now That's What I Call Emo Volume 19.

I wonder if this trend in popular music has had any influence on the break-up decisions of so many of my bands. I wonder if J. Robbins ever catches MTV and wants to strangle these handsome little bastards who have made DC rock and roll mainstream. Maybe he is actually happy. Maybe I should be as well. Our music won. It's not the same, it's lost its edge and a lot of its relevance. But it's a hell of a lot better than the rest of the pop music wasteland. Maybe it's a logical progression from underground to mainstream. And maybe it's my cue to start acting like a grownup and let the kids have their rock.

But goddamn it, I still want to rock. I still think heaven is a sweaty rock and roll club, a Budweiser, and a bummed cigarette. And what the hell am I supposed to do with all these Chuck Taylor's, black nerd glasses, and band t-shirts?

Bowhunting And The Beltway, A Love Story

I played basketball after work yesterday (poorly). I met my kid brother after work, which means I drove a different route than I normally do. Mercifully, traffic is rarely a problem for me because I have a reverse commute. But yesterday I had to take the exit for the Beltway, southbound, from the Dulles Toll Road. There might not be a better place in the entire Metro area to find the lowest fucking scum on the earth- the asshole that cheats his way all the way up the merge lane to get in front of six cars and shave 39 seconds off his commute. Because there are three different roads merging together, this gives Johnny roadrage and his wraparound sunglasses and 'W' bumperstickers multiple chances to demonstrate that if you drive a luxury SUV, you must be really fucking important.

I'm sitting in line, waiting to go south, watching people dart into the line at the last second. I've noticed that this strategy has the ancillary affect of terrorizing the timid drivers who are waiting in line, causing them to inch along slowly and cause even further backups. Of course this only hurts the courteous drivers, because the slowpokes leave huge holes for even more Republicans to come diving into the lane at the last second.

So I'm sitting there when a guy in a pickup truck cuts in to the three feet of space right in front of me. I don't let him in, I move forward. He accelerates, and I accelerate. He's in the shoulder now, and I can read his bumperstickers, which are plentiful. There are the usual Bush and "Support Our Troops" (because lord knows liberals want all our troops to die) stickers, but there is one that stands out, something or other espousing the merits of bowhunting. I laugh out loud at that.

Look, if shooting little furry things with an arrow makes you happy, knock yourself out. I remember we had archery classes at camp in sixth grade and it was kinda fun, so I can imagine you get a kick out of it. I just find it funny that you feel the need to tell the world that you're macho enough to be a Bowhunter. It's funny because you're telling us other things as well, such as:

-You're the guy that won't sit next to your buddy at the bar. You make sure there is an empty seat between the two of you. Sitting next to another man is for fags!

-You walk by the urinals on your way to the stall. You can't pee with those other men around you, you might get tempted to look at their penises. Looking at penises is for fags!

Why go on? I think you know the type.

So I'm hating this guy, and I'm enjoying him glaring at me as I won't let him merge in. But eventually I realize that I'm being childish, and I let him in. He gives me the finger. I laugh. We go forward another hundred yards or so, and we get to another part of the exit where another road is merging in. The driver in front of my new Bowhunting friend is the timid type, and is getting spooked by all the Escalades that keep merging at the last second. This is pissing off the Bowhunter. He keeps throwing his hands up, and while I can't read sign language, I'm pretty sure those hand gestures mean "Stop letting people in, being nice is for fags!"

Finally he gets so mad that he tries to drive BACK OUT into the merge lane to go around the slowpoke. He gets halfway out into the lane and has to stop, because his brethren won't let him into the merge lane because they're too goddamn busy trying to cut in front of the slowpoke in front of us. Now he is really pissed, and he has turned completely around in his seat to watch the merge lane for a chance to go around the slowpoke. But dumbass doesn't realize that slowpoke has finally moved. Since I can see it, I hit the gas and try to drive around Bowhunter by squeezing into the opposite shoulder. He sees what I'm doing and goes apoplectic. There is NO FUCKING WAY he is going to let me in, buddy. Don't even think about it, pal! We get into another merge war, and at this point his car is close enough to reach out and touch. I look up, and he's rolling down his window to scream at me. He's pointing and making a fist. He is going to KICK MY ASS!

I'm really laughing now, but I'm also getting angry. I can appreciate that he is a fucktard, but the Chickenhawk in me is feeling like a fight. Thankfully cooler heads prevail and I let him in. He continues to glare at me in the rearview mirror, and I get my revenge by blowing him kisses. This shuts him up, blowing kisses at guys is for fags! Have I just stumbled on the perfect way to beat these guys? I used to wish I had a fake badge to hold up when guys get all roadragey. But could it really be true that all I have to do is play on their raging homophobia?

Work Is Not For Sex Talk

I don't get along with my boss. I've only had this job for about four months, but in that time she has made it clear that she simply does not like me. My coworkers have commented that she appears to have it in for me, but no one can really tell why. Because I aim to please, I have tried everything I can think of to make her happy. I bust my ass, I produce a ton of work, and nothing seems to be enough. At this point I have just given up. You can't please all of the people all of the time, and this is one of those situations.

I am continually amazed at her complete lack of professionalism. My company is growing very rapidly, and in that growth they have promoted a number of people out of necessity. This is the only explanation as to why someone with no apparent managerial skill could have been placed in a management position. She came to my company directly out of college, when the firm had only a few dozen people. Now, four years later, we number over 150 and she finds herself a manager at 25 years old. It is this kind of dedication and commitment to its employees that makes me like my company, but at some point loyalty should give way to sound business practices. Management is a skill that must be developed, and this woman is in over her head.

Beyond the professionalism, it's apparent that Boss and I are two very different people. She is the absolute prototype suburban twentysomething. Business degree from Virginia Tech? Check. Sorority? Check. Townhouse? Check. Fiance? Check. Volkswagon Passat? Check. Bush/Cheney bumpersticker? Check. Vacation in Nags Head? Check. I abhor the kind of person that she is, but I keep that all in. I've got a job to do, and I try to make nice.

What makes the situation worse is that she tries to be friends with me, in a superficial and deliberate way. It's obvious that being The Boss doesn't sit well with her sometimes (although I'm sure that sometimes she LOVES it), so being chummy helps her feel better about herself when she bitches at me. She tries to make small talk to show me what a nice person she is, and how concerned she is about me. But by doing that she only demonstrates how different we are. Two examples of why Boss and I do not and will not ever get along:

1) My fellow employees are all very young. This is one of the things I like about my job. I'd say the average age is 30, tops. Because of this, hangovers are a badge of honor. I'm glad I have realized this. Drinking makes me job so much easier. It's perfectly acceptable to talk about how drunk you were the night before. One morning in a meeting Boss makes a comment about the stamp I have neglected to wash off my hand, and I explain that it's from a bar called the Black Cat. She's never heard of it, and I say, "It's like the 9:30 club kinda, but only smaller." She says, "What's the 9:30 club?" This woman has lived in the Virginia suburbs for five years, from ages 21 to 25. If you don't know what the 9:30 is, you and I really don't have much to talk about.

2) My team consists of Boss, me, and J, a senior-level staffer that ranks between us. One day after I had been on the job about a month we are sitting around in a conference room after a meeting, bullshitting. J and Boss are friends, or at least Boss thinks so. J actually cannot stand Boss, but has learned that kissing her ass can be very beneficial, hence the promotion to senior level. J and Boss are talking about Boss' wedding (let me tell you how much I love hearing about her wedding every day) when Boss gets an IM from someone. She has her laptop plugged into the projector, so J and I can both see what she is typing. Boss is surprised, because the person on the other end is an old boyfriend, someone she had a thing with in college. At this point Boss should have ended the meeting or at least turned the fucking projector off, but instead she starts giving us uncomfortable details about the poor bastard. She also tells us that she wants to find out good gossip to tell her friends. She proceeds to ask pointed questions to find out things like: How much money is he making? Does he own his house, or is he only renting? He's recently gotten married and had a baby, was the wife pregnant when they got married? She is doing all this conniving shit directly in front of me and J, and we cannot escape. This is the kind of person Boss is.

So lately the people that sit near me have taken to making fun of me about this Friend that I have been hanging out with recently. They tease me that my Friend is really more than my friend, and people laugh when I assure them that we're just friends. I'm always going on about plans with the Friend, or what I did last night with the Friend, or blah blah blah. My co-workers tease me about it, but they don't pry. It's all in good fun. Unfortunately the Boss has a little less tact.

Before a meeting on Friday, Boss was talking about her plans for the weekend. These involve planning something about the wedding or something, something I don't care at all about. She asks me what I'm doing, and she says, "Are you going out with your...friend?" in a very condescending way. At this point, J walks in. I say that I am, and she asks "So what's the deal with just being 'friends' anyway?" I sorta shrug my shoulders and don't really say anything, and then she asks, "Are you sleeping together?"

!

It is true that I have a very laidback office, where personal lives are often discussed openly. But this is just none of her goddamn business. I am obviously very put off by the question, because Boss turns to J and says, "Oh look! I made him uncomfortable!" She is happy about this. J is mortified. But what can I do? I just don't answer.

There are a thousand ethical issues here. For starters it's an inappropriate question to ask someone at work. It's also blatant sexual harassment. And if she were a man and I were a woman, it would probably be grounds for termination. It's also complicated because she has been with the firm forever, and has friends in high places. If I were to make a fuss about this, I would have to take it up with her pals. If they reprimand her, she will make my life hell as she already doesn't like me. If they reassign me, she will gossip all over the office and I will be even more ostracized.

I like my job, although I don't intend to stay here very much longer. I took this position right after grad school, and I plan to use it to move on in another six months ago. I'm tempted to just suck it up and not say anything, to not rock the boat and just deal for a little longer.

But it chaps my ass that I'm considering letting her get away with this. I'm sure that Kant is rolling over in his grave. I know that I should make an example of this, that I should bring it up with the big bosses to make things Right and Good and Just. Only I really want to just make it all go away and come to work and ignore it, knowing I won't have to deal with shit like this for much longer. I feel like a heel, but I'm a heel with a job I enjoy and a greater plan that involves getting the fuck out of here.

What should I do?

Ineffectuality, Super-Sized®

I like fast food. I know it's bad for me, and the fast food companies exploit their workers, and the food is crap. I'm aware of all of this. But I can't deny it, I just like it. And I'm not just talking about the convenience and the fact that it's dirt cheap. I actually like the taste of it. I mean come on, burgers and fries?

Fast food joints are interesting, too, because you never know what kind of people you're going to see there. They're a great equalizer of sorts.

There is, however, one type of person you find at these places that drives me crazy- the people who treat the staff like shit.

Male fast food employee hater:

I am a very important person. I mean, look how expensive my watch is. And you know I have no tolerance or respect for people who make less money than I do. Obviously these idiots behind the counter never went to college, and even if they did it was probably a state school. And lord knows they weren't cool enough to have been in my fraternity, and so they definitely did not have access to my extensive network that allowed me to cheat my way through business school. Could they have gotten that copy of the Accounting final the morning before the exam, allowing them to get totally fucking hammered dude at the DMB concert the night before? Hardly. Hell, they probably don't even like DMB! And that's a shame, too, because these people appear to be ethnic, and the DMB is ethnic. I mean, they've got black people actually IN the band! But anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, these people don't seem to be able to speak English, either, which can only mean one thing: terrorist. That's it, I'm getting another 'W' sticker for my BMW. It's time we got rid of all of these people once and for all.

Female fast food hater:

First of all, do you know how hard it is to park a Hummer in one of these parking spaces? (sighs audibly) Can I have a Big Mac meal, super size, with a Diet Coke? Yes...that's...Diet...Coke! Jesus, can't any of you people speak English? (rolls eyes) Why are all these Mexicans so stupid? No, I'm not a racist. I just think that if you come to this country, you should be able to speak the language and get a good job. I have the same problem with my gardener and my maid. Oh and don't give me that shit that this is hard work. I cook for my family at least twice a week, and have you seen my rose garden? I appreciate a hard day's work.

I hate all of you. I hate you every time you shout at the poor woman behind the counter because you think that will make it easier for her to understand your language. I hate you every time you turn around, exasperated, and give me that sympathetic "Can you believe white people have to deal with this shit?" look. I'm crossing my fingers that the guys in the back are putting god knows what in your food.

You see, I've worked in fast food before. It sucks. It's demeaning and exhausting. It's hot as an oven in there, you get treated like a machine, and you make minimum wage. You burn yourself constantly, you sweat incessantly, and you're trapped in a polyester uniform that was designed by some asshole who has never set foot behind the counter. The people you wait on judge you simply by your respective positions at the counter, and no matter how fast you are or how hot the food is, the only time you will hear from them is when you fuck up an order.

So I am unfailingly polite to the staff at these joints. I am sympathetic to how hard their job is, and I know that the last thing they want to do is serve low-grade dogfood to my drunk ass at 3am. This is particularly true of the poor folks at the McDonald's at the corner of Lee and Glebe, which is miraculously open 24 hours. Needless to say that the latenight weekend staff is getting to know me.

There is one woman in particular who gets my deepest sympathies. A few weeks ago I pulled up to the window after the group of kids in front of me had just given her an especially difficult time. I seem to see her every weekend, and she gave me a smile of semi-recognition. She looked pretty depressed. I smiled back, made some small talk and apologized for the drunk kids (in Spanish, which appeared to delight her), and thanked her. It can be awkward in that kind of situation, because in the middle of the night it takes a while at the window because they often have to actually make the food. But hey, I was fine. I was drunk and chatting up the fast food lady, and my act was killing.

Fast forward a few weeks, to maybe two weeks ago, and I am at the same McDonald's but this time on a weeknight after work. It's maybe 7pm. I pull up to the window and it's the same lady. This time I get a big smile, a smile that, if we were in a bar, would say, "Wow! I didn't know you hang out here! It's so good to see you!" I smile back, nervous. What am I supposed to do? I so do not understand the etiquette in the situation. Thankfully the whole episode is mercifully short, because it's the dinner rush and I've got to get a move on. But after she takes my money and starts to hand me my food, she leans out the window and whispers to me, conspiratorially:

"I gave you some extra straws."

I am literally paralyzed. I've got a shit ton of self-loathing for my tendency to handle social situations in the least-cool way possible, but this one takes the cake. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? All I can do is smile and say, "Thank you" and drive away. Straws?! What the fuck is that all about? French fries I could understand. French fries says, "Next time, ask for my number." But straws?

Rock Out With Your Dock(ers) Out

Look I'm no authority on fashion. Me = blue jeans, tshirt, Chucks. I've got a deep distrust for men who spend too much time in front of the mirror. I understand that being fashionable is an acquired skill, something I simply do not possess. I recognize that some men can do it- my hangup is that most can't. So if you buy your clothes at anything that could be considered a boutique, then this isn't for you. If you're like the vast majority of men, however, I think I might have a bone to pick with you. You see you and me need to talk, and it's about your clothes. I apologize if this bruises your feelings, but believe me when I tell you that it hurts us more than it hurts you. I don't want to waste any more time, so let's get right to the point.

Pleats? No.

I simply cannot believe that men are still wearing pleated pants in 2005. Somewhere along the line someone decided that putting pleats in your pants gives you a 'slimming' effect. No fellas, it doesn't. It makes your already fat ass look pear-shaped. But beyond the failed effort to take the focus off your girth, you are demonstrating that you are completely oblivious to the fact that just about any woman you meet will tell you that pleated pants are fucking retarded. The plain-front Dockers are right next to the pleated ones at JC Penney. Please, for all of us, give up the pleats.

Black guys are cooler than you.

They just are. They can make ridiculous outfits look good. Case in point- the tie and shirt of the same color fabric look. This looks snappy on brothers; it looks incredibly stupid on me and you. I know that you have, like, at least three black Friendsters, and that that one guy in your frat's mom was black. That's great, you're a very diverse individual. But stop kidding yourself whitey, you look a fool.

Mandals.

Unless they are going to come into direct contact with sand, you are never, ever to wear shoes that expose your toes. Do you hear me? The one passable exception is a basic pair of flip flops, which I guess you can wear when you're farting around on the weekends. But the minute you show up at the bar with anything that buckles or straps...

Your underpants are not for pictures.

When I was seven I had Superman Underoos. They rocked. I put them on and pretended to be Superman. You know what was the coolest part about it? I was SEVEN. Now I'm a grownup, and so are you. So no more pictures on your underpants. This means that you're going to have to throw away your boxers with the Christmas trees/Budweiser frogs/naked ladies/New York Yankees logo. If you look in your underwear drawer and you see the words "Joe" and "Boxer" it's headed for the trash. And yes, I'm sorry, you're going to have to finally rid yourself of those threadbare, faded, silk monstrosities that your girlfriend gave you in college.

Superfan.

There is one acceptable place to wear a jersey- to the game where the team is playing. So, when the Yankees are in town, you and your mouthbreathing idiot friends can suit up in your Derek Jeter replicas and pound Miller Lites at Camden Yards. For the 358 days a year when the Yanks aren't in town, that fucker is staying in the closet. It will have company right next to your repressed homosexuality.

Been there, done that.

Under no circumstances is it permissible to wear a tshirt advertising a city, bar, or restaurant you have visited. We don't care. This is especially true if the place has a slightly racy name. No one over thirteen thinks your "I got crabs at Dick's Raw Bar" shirt is funny. It is worth noting, however, that it is absolutely acceptable to wear a tshirt advertising a band that you have seen play. The rub is that only certain bands are acceptable. How will you know? If you bought the shirt at the 'concert,' it's a nono. If it cost more than twenty dollars, it's a nono. If it has a collar, it's a nono. You know what? On second thought maybe you should just stay away from the band tshirts.

Tucking.

Repeat after me: "With the sole exception of weddings, I promise that I will not tuck anything into anything from the hours of 5pm Friday through 8am Monday."

I'd like to point out that the phenomenon isn't restricted to men. In the spirit of equality, some tips for the ladies.

Tall butts.

This one confuses me. I've never dated a woman with a tall butt, so I don't really understand the physiology of the thing. But for some reason, some women have butts that start in the middle of their backs. Call me crazy, but if I were one of these women I think I'd wear my pants somewhere below my nipples so as not to exaggerate the tall butt phenomenon. Please relax and pull your pants down a little. Don't worry, we all know about the embarrassing tattoo.

Enough with the boobs already.

Your boobs are great. They look good and you like showing them off. I enjoy looking at them. But we are at WORK. Please, for the love of god, cover them up at least a little bit. We're trying to work here. Jesus Christ, did I really just type that? That doesn't make me gay, does it?

Yankees rule!

I Might Be A Dick, But You Know You Kinda Do Look Like T-Rex (PS- Call Me)

I'm new here, in this neighborhood. Been here about a month. I don't know any of my neighbors yet, which is sort of unusual for me. I'm the kind of person that says "Hello" to the random people that live in my building. I smile and make small talk. I want them to like me. I want to like them. I've yet to make these connections in this place. I believe that I can trace it to one bizarre, five minute episode that's so typical of the bizarre, five minute episodes that seem to happen to me.

I'd been here about a week, and a shit ton of boxes and other moving detritus had piled up in my apartment. I'd been putting off taking it to the dumpster because, frankly, I didn't know where the dumpster was. One evening after work I went out to find the dumpster, making concentric circles around the property until I finally found the goddamn thing. Turns out I've got to navigate any number of staircases and obstacles to get there, so there is no chance I'm carrying all that shit. I load it up in my car and drive over there.

I pull up alongside the dumpster and throw it all in. Recyclables and all. I don't even care. I'm systematically destroying the Earth to exact revenge on my one-time fiance, full-time conservationist, all-time hideous bitch goddess. This is immature and passive aggressive, but I can accept that. The emo record fuck-you sendoff never really got off the ground. This is my revenge. Forgive me. I feel better with every Budweiser bottle that explodes in the dumpster. Take that! And that!

With my chores/therapy done for the day, I get back in my car to drive home. The dumpster is situated on a kind of one-way street behind a row of buildings. It's fairly straightforward that you're supposed to drive FORWARD on one-way streets, but I look to my right and see someone driving BACKWARDS the wrong way, right at me. The car is moving slowly, I am in no real danger. I am, however, at a loss as to what to do. I can't go anywhere. My only choice was to drive backwards as well, and that wasn't in the cards. The dumpster sits at the corner of an 'L' shape in the street, like this:

| C |
| | |
| | |
| v |
| F |____________
|D_______________

I'm pretty proud of that drawing, by the way.

So the other person's car is 'C,' as in and they're closing in on me. The dumpster is 'D' because dumpster begins with a 'D.' I'm at 'F' which stands for 'Fucked' but was too long to fit in the drawing.

Now mind you, I'm not worried about getting smashed. I'm worried about an embarrassing situation involving my neighbors. I want to be friendly guy, not idiot who blocks the dumpster guy. But I really can't do anything, and at this point I can make out the driver in her rearview mirror. My luck, of course, is that she is an attractive young woman. I make eye contact with her. I know she sees me. She continues to back up. I gesture fairly calmly. I make the universal sign for "I'm terribly sorry and somewhat embarrassed, but you see I'm stuck here and I am uncertain what to do. You are going the wrong way, but I'm new here and you're cute and I am totally willing to be the bad guy if it means I turn out to be the nice, understanding guy who admits when he is wrong. But, regardless, I don't know what to do right now so please don't hit my car." She can't decipher the message, she continues to back up.

She's closing fast now, and my sign language picks up in intensity. I gesture wildly. I put my hands up. I even honk my horn. She keeps backing up. Ten feet, five feet, three feet. At this point my mouth just hangs open. She drives directly into my car. She's hit the front, passenger side.

I get out of the car. I'm awestruck. I'm incredulous. I'm dumbfounded. I'm embarrassed for the both of us. I am not, however, angry. The damage, if any, is probably minor. My car is nice, but it's nothing insurance can't fix and I'm not the guy who cares about that kind of thing. I am, however, the kind of guy who appreciates that misfortune is sometimes awfully funny. I walk around my car to check things out. She gets out of her car.

There is no politically correct way to put this. She has some sort of physical disability. She has a pronounced limp. She also has one of those little mini-arms, sort of like a tyrannosaurus rex. Some might call that description 'insensitive.' I call it 'apt.' I am immediately ashamed. This is a woman who probably has enough shit to deal with on a regular basis, and now this has happened. I immediately feel sorry for her. I smile. I beckon to her. My expression says, "It's ok, fucked up shit happens sometimes. I forgive you." She walks (more like waddles) right up to me and says (more like slurs):

"Why didn't you move?!"

I almost ask her to repeat herself. Are you kidding? You can't be serious! "I had nowhere to go, I thought you saw me" is my only defense. "I did see you, I thought you would know to move." Know to move! I don't know what to say. I have a million plausible defenses, none of which I feel like employing. I feel like a heel. Three minutes ago I'm thinking "Don't hit my car, cute new neighbor" and now I'm thinking "Goddamn T-Rex just rolled me on purpose." I hate myself for being so shallow. I hate her for being so stupid.

This story has no real ending. Turns out that, miraculously, her bumper has collided with my front tire, which was turned to the right in anticipation of, you know, driving the right fucking way down the one-way fucking street after I finished with the fucking dumpster. I have no damage. She has only minor damage, which she is kind enough to explain that she won't 'call the cops' about. I laugh at that. I've held in the laughter this long, I can't take it anymore. I laugh because the cops will hear the story and laugh. I will explain it, they will understand it, and somehow I will be charged with reckless driving and forced to pay for this. My premiums will go up. I will go broke. I will be forced to move into this fucking dumpster where parking is anything but ample.

In the days after this, I anticipate meeting new neighbors and explaining the story. We will laugh at the stupid lady that hit my car. I will regale them with my hyperbole and theatrics. I get no such opportunity. I've been ostracized. From that day forward I have not encountered anyone. Turns out the joke is on me. I reckon that T-Rex is the hub of the community, and I've been blacklisted. Ah well, what can you do? Nothing really, except WALK to the fucking dumpster from now on.

...and THAT'S why I will never go to Hooters again.

OK look don't tell anyone, but I've become a square. Not that I was ever the paragon of cool, but I'd like to think that at one point in my life I was at least somewhat with it. Lately, that's not so much the case. This fact is put on painful display at work, where I have recently joined a firm whose entire staff appears to be younger than me. I just turned 30, and I'm over the hill. My problem is compounded because I cannot relate to the people that I work with. They're nice enough, but they're shopping for minivans and starter homes. Just take this example: my boss (who is a solid four years younger than me) has not only never heard of the 9:30 club, she also met her husband-to-be at the Shark Club in Centreville. Needless to say, these people can't understand the aging rock and roll hipster vibe I'm trying to cultivate.

Of the people that I have met at my new job, I feel closest to my colleague Jessica. I've begun a campaign to try to convince her that, if I had it my way, I wouldn't be wearing Dockers and talking about public policy. I'd be wearing jeans and talking about public policy. She's not buying it. Can't say I blame her. I don't have much evidence to the contrary. That is, I didn't until last weekend.

A few Fridays ago your Washington Wizards defeated the Chicago Bulls at MCI Center, and boy did we get drunk at the game. Stumbling out of the arena with my best friend Ed, drunk with victory and full of seven dollar Budweisers, we decided to get another drink at a bar in the neighborhood before heading back uptown. Of course the bars were packed with fans, and we mostly wanted some space so we could talk about the game. We needed a bar that wasn't so crowded, where we could drink on the cheap and pat each other on the back for being such great fans. Unfortunately, the only bar that fit this description was Hooters.

We loved the irony. We loved the juxtaposition of two guys who just know they're too cool for Hooters surrounded by a bunch of guys that think Hooters is too cool for these two dorks that just walked in. We sit down, we order a beer, we laugh, and we have a good time. For ten minutes. Then it just gets depressing. Look, Hooters just sucks. I doubt I need to get into why. I had never been, but now I have. Hooters may as well be Studio 54 when you're a kid in the suburbs. Then you grow up and find out it's Ruby Tuesday in hotpants. Sigh. Nothing remarkable happened.

Until Monday morning.

I finally had a story about a crazy thing I did. I went to Hooters! People in the suburbs have heard of Hooters! It's almost like a strip club, only the women are wearing clothes and they've got buffalo wings! I couldn't wait to tell Jessica. I log on to our network and bring up our corporate instant messenger program. I pick out Jessica's name, and I send her this message:"I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do you think of that?"

Total and complete lack of response from Jessica.

This should have been a bombshell, this should have been instant punk rock credibility. See?! I'm whimsical! I can stare at half-naked 19 year old girls any time I want! But no, silence. I start to panic. Maybe Jessica works at Hooters? Maybe she had a bad Hooters experience? Wait a minute, what's a good Hooters experience? Anyway, something was amiss.

Then I take a closer look at the "To:" field.

FUCK! I sent this to the WRONG FUCKING JESSICA! This Jessica is a complete stranger. Their last names are remarkably similar, but they are indeed different. I'm new in the company, I want to make a good impression, I'm supposed to be the straight and narrow guy. The sweat comes in rivers. I re-read what I wrote. Dear God, I've just typed the creepiest pickup line in history: "I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do YOU think of that?" Insert smarmy glance and improper touching. Oh shit, I'm dead. I'm fired. I'm going to get sued for sexual harassment. I'm going to get blackballed. I'm going to have to move in with my mother and get registered as a sex offender.

While I'm acting out the final, miserable years of my destroyed life in my head, the Other Jessica still hasn't responded. I type a series of apologies. Still nothing. I confess to Real Jessica, who might be the first person in history to type "LMAO" while she is actually doing it. She tells me not to be embarassed- if anything she should be embarassed, because Other Jessica is going to think that Real Jessica is the kind of girl who thinks going to Hooters is hot. That's a fair point. But I'm not fucking embarassed, I'm paranoid! Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Still nothing from Other Jessica.

I have to do something. I have to head this off. I have to act proactively, swallow my pride, and just admit to being a fucktard. I can do this. I take deep breaths. I ask my boss (Mrs. Shark Club) if I can speak to her in private. She agrees. She looks concerned. I blush. I confess. She listens. She can't hold it any longer. She giggles. She laughs. She howls. "I already know Bryce, everyone knows. She didn't respond to you because she was telling everyone what an idiot you are. Don't worry, it's fine, she thinks it's kind of funny."

So now I endure Hooters jokes at work. I'm not sure if I prefer these to the square jokes, but they certainly take the attention off my Dockers.