Get away from me, I'm warning you. Something terrible is about to happen.
You see, I'm cursed. Bad things just happen to me. Always have. I had an ex who used to say that lucky people seem to have rainbows following them around, and unlucky people have stormclouds. Only bryc3's stormcloud rains knives and broken glass. It's true. If you read this regularly you know that I must have done something to someone at some point that basically screwed me for life. My karma is pwn3d. There's no way around it.
You learn to live with it. When you're constantly prepared for the worst case scenario you develop an almost Zen-like calm when the shit hits the fan. "Oh, bad luck. I was wondering when you'd show up." Case in point: when my ex-fiance and I split up I barely batted an eye. Now granted, I was happy to be rid of the shrieking, hateful harpy. But on the other hand, catastrophe was inevitable. Instead of thinking "Woe is me, only six weeks to the wedding" I instead realized "Meh, at least I got that out of the way." It's as if acceptance of my own bad luck as destiny has led to a pessimism so extreme that I take comfort in it. So I just always make sure I'm wearing clean underwear, I avoid buying green bananas, and I carry around the names of next of kin in my wallet. I'm so sure the lightning bolt is aiming right at me that I don't even bother to look up when it rains. Death is coming sooner rather than later.
Except there is considerable recent evidence that suggests that my luck has changed.
Listen:
My girlfriend is the greatest person in the world. Like ever. Baby is simply the best thing that has ever happened to me. She's so great, in fact, that I have no idea what she's doing. She's way too good for me. But she hasn't caught on to this yet, and if you tell her I will fucking kill you.
When Baby and I decided to look for a new apartment recently we fell in love with and successfully rented the first place we saw.
I let my current landlord know that I would be moving out prior to the actual expiration of my lease, and that I was going to have to be on the hook for two places in the month of April. A week later she called to tell me she had rented my current place, saving me an entire month's rent.
On a lark I decided to apply for a job I saw listed in the paper. I didn't think I stood a chance, and I didn't think the interview went well. They told me they'd call me the following week and inform me of their decision. Imagine my surprise when they called two days later to offer me the job. Oh and by the way it pays 30% more than my current salary. And I will never need to drive my car again. And I have my own office. And on and on.
My current boss walks up to me today and says, "I know your last day is next Friday, but would you mind if we just made it next Wednesday? It will be easier for the people in HR. We will still pay you through Friday."
The George Mason Patriots are ranked 25 in this week's ESPN/Coaches poll.
And did I mention how great Baby is?
What the fuck is going on here? What on earth have I done to deserve this? And what unspeakable peril is about to befall me? This really doesn't look good. Baby swears my luck is changing. In her argument I hit the bottom and kept on going, and now I'm being rewarded. I'm way too jaded to buy into any of that crap (again, you tell Baby I said that and I'll kill you), but she may have a point. Time will tell I guess.
In the meantime, don't say I didn't warn you. And promise to say nice things about me at the funeral.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
My Penis: Three Vignettes
It’s probably not news to you that I’m a calamity magnet. In fact, it’s probably why you read this. I’ve gotten the impression that people most like to read about my misfortunes and mishaps. I’m ok with that. I think you’re going to like this one.
I hurt myself all the time. I also drop things, misplace things, forget things, overreact to things, and generally fuck most things up. This isn’t the end of the world when I stub my toe or lose the remote. But when a certain body part is involved, it tends to magnify the gravity of the situation.
This is going to be a bit graphic, so be warned. For the sake of saving some decency, I’m going to refer to my penis as my Little Guy. This isn’t some ironic joke, like calling a big fat guy Tiny. This is just what Baby happens to call it. And that’s not even the humiliating part of the story.
In fact, I have three other humiliating stories to tell about my Little Guy.
Number One
Back when I was in high school I was sleeping with a girl with a less than pristine reputation. Granted, my reputation probably made her look like a saint, but that’s a different story for a different time. Let’s just say we were both rather sexually active.
I had just gone through a whole series of those really graphic sex ed classes where they show you how banged up your privates get if you get things like warts or herpes or the clap. Because I wanted (and was miraculously able) to do it all the time I figured it was basically a given that my Little Guy was going to rot off sooner rather than later. I was very paranoid.
So I am about to have sex with this girl and it’s completely dark in the room. She has the protection I insist (against her wishes) on using, and I fumble my way through putting it on in the dark. We finish doing what we did, and I get up to go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. I stumble, completely naked, into the also dark bathroom and hunt for the light switch. I eventually find it and flip it, only to be blinded by the lights. When I am finally able to see again I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my knees literally buckle. My Little Guy is a shade of red that nobody’s Little Guy should ever be. Think fire engine. Now think of an infected, contagious, biohazard colored fire engine. I am certain my sexual career is over. When I regain my composure I realize I’m fine. It’s a bright red novelty condom. Crisis averted.
Post script to this story: If this ever happens to you, don’t go back to the bedroom and say to the girl, “Holy shit, for a minute there I thought you gave me the worst STD ever!” Chicks don’t dig that.
Number Two
There is a guy in every gym that everyone hates. He is the guy that doesn’t have an ounce of basketball ability, but insists on playing to get a workout. He takes up space on the court, turns the ball over, fouls the hell out of you, and is really nothing more than an injury waiting to happen.
In college I had the misfortune of having to be guarded by That Guy one fateful day. Knowing my luck, I’m basically just trying to get through the game without having to be put in an ambulance. At one point the ball gets lose and That Guy and I are running towards it from opposite directions. A collision is eminent, so I brace myself for the impact and grit my teeth. That Guy comes in front foot first, in an inexplicable karate kick motion that makes a fucking beeline for my Little Guy. I take the full force of his foot to my groin and I go down in a heap, only immediately I know something is very, very wrong.
You see, normally when you get hit down there it’s in the balls. That is the part that hurts, and it’s a sickening feeling that you really can’t describe unless it’s happened to you. This pain isn’t like that at all. This is stinging. And stinging on your Little Guy is fucking catastrophic.
As I’m laying there I realize I’m going to have to check Little Guy out, because something is definitely amiss. Only that’s hard to do when a crowd of people has gathered around you to say really helpful things like, “God damn, that must have hurt!” They get me up, and I make my way to the locker room and into a stall.
This time my knees buckled and gave out, and I had to sit on the edge of the toilet. When I looked down at my Little Guy all I saw was blood. That Guy’s foot had apparently caught Little Guy at his very base and peeled the skin off from the base to the tip. Like a goddamn sardine tin rolling back. I bled through my underpants and my shorts. And Little Guy was completely out of commission for weeks.
Post script to this story: “No honey, these scabs are from basketball, I’m totally clean” is a very, very, very hard sell.
Number Three
I just recently got contacts for the first time, and I’m having a hell of a time putting them in. I typically have to stand in front of the mirror for a long time and force them in. I’m getting better, but it still takes about ten minutes each morning. I don’t exactly pick up new things easily or gracefully.
So I’m standing at the sink on Monday morning in my underpants, trying to put my god-forsaken contacts in. I’m leaning toward the bathroom mirror, over the sink, trying to line everything up. I’m about to take a stab at insertion when I get that all-too-familiar knee-buckling feeling again. I’m paralyzed with fear, as I have an icy, stinging sensation on the tip of my Little Guy.
I manage to jump back and survey the situation and quickly find the cause of the problem. In my effort to lean over the sink to get closer to the mirror I have somehow found the one square inch of countertop occupied by my open contact case. With my Little Guy. I’ve then dipped the tip of my Little Guy directly into it.
Post script to this story: There is a reason the bottle says “For external use only.” Contact solution in your peehole? Bad idea.
I hurt myself all the time. I also drop things, misplace things, forget things, overreact to things, and generally fuck most things up. This isn’t the end of the world when I stub my toe or lose the remote. But when a certain body part is involved, it tends to magnify the gravity of the situation.
This is going to be a bit graphic, so be warned. For the sake of saving some decency, I’m going to refer to my penis as my Little Guy. This isn’t some ironic joke, like calling a big fat guy Tiny. This is just what Baby happens to call it. And that’s not even the humiliating part of the story.
In fact, I have three other humiliating stories to tell about my Little Guy.
Number One
Back when I was in high school I was sleeping with a girl with a less than pristine reputation. Granted, my reputation probably made her look like a saint, but that’s a different story for a different time. Let’s just say we were both rather sexually active.
I had just gone through a whole series of those really graphic sex ed classes where they show you how banged up your privates get if you get things like warts or herpes or the clap. Because I wanted (and was miraculously able) to do it all the time I figured it was basically a given that my Little Guy was going to rot off sooner rather than later. I was very paranoid.
So I am about to have sex with this girl and it’s completely dark in the room. She has the protection I insist (against her wishes) on using, and I fumble my way through putting it on in the dark. We finish doing what we did, and I get up to go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. I stumble, completely naked, into the also dark bathroom and hunt for the light switch. I eventually find it and flip it, only to be blinded by the lights. When I am finally able to see again I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my knees literally buckle. My Little Guy is a shade of red that nobody’s Little Guy should ever be. Think fire engine. Now think of an infected, contagious, biohazard colored fire engine. I am certain my sexual career is over. When I regain my composure I realize I’m fine. It’s a bright red novelty condom. Crisis averted.
Post script to this story: If this ever happens to you, don’t go back to the bedroom and say to the girl, “Holy shit, for a minute there I thought you gave me the worst STD ever!” Chicks don’t dig that.
Number Two
There is a guy in every gym that everyone hates. He is the guy that doesn’t have an ounce of basketball ability, but insists on playing to get a workout. He takes up space on the court, turns the ball over, fouls the hell out of you, and is really nothing more than an injury waiting to happen.
In college I had the misfortune of having to be guarded by That Guy one fateful day. Knowing my luck, I’m basically just trying to get through the game without having to be put in an ambulance. At one point the ball gets lose and That Guy and I are running towards it from opposite directions. A collision is eminent, so I brace myself for the impact and grit my teeth. That Guy comes in front foot first, in an inexplicable karate kick motion that makes a fucking beeline for my Little Guy. I take the full force of his foot to my groin and I go down in a heap, only immediately I know something is very, very wrong.
You see, normally when you get hit down there it’s in the balls. That is the part that hurts, and it’s a sickening feeling that you really can’t describe unless it’s happened to you. This pain isn’t like that at all. This is stinging. And stinging on your Little Guy is fucking catastrophic.
As I’m laying there I realize I’m going to have to check Little Guy out, because something is definitely amiss. Only that’s hard to do when a crowd of people has gathered around you to say really helpful things like, “God damn, that must have hurt!” They get me up, and I make my way to the locker room and into a stall.
This time my knees buckled and gave out, and I had to sit on the edge of the toilet. When I looked down at my Little Guy all I saw was blood. That Guy’s foot had apparently caught Little Guy at his very base and peeled the skin off from the base to the tip. Like a goddamn sardine tin rolling back. I bled through my underpants and my shorts. And Little Guy was completely out of commission for weeks.
Post script to this story: “No honey, these scabs are from basketball, I’m totally clean” is a very, very, very hard sell.
Number Three
I just recently got contacts for the first time, and I’m having a hell of a time putting them in. I typically have to stand in front of the mirror for a long time and force them in. I’m getting better, but it still takes about ten minutes each morning. I don’t exactly pick up new things easily or gracefully.
So I’m standing at the sink on Monday morning in my underpants, trying to put my god-forsaken contacts in. I’m leaning toward the bathroom mirror, over the sink, trying to line everything up. I’m about to take a stab at insertion when I get that all-too-familiar knee-buckling feeling again. I’m paralyzed with fear, as I have an icy, stinging sensation on the tip of my Little Guy.
I manage to jump back and survey the situation and quickly find the cause of the problem. In my effort to lean over the sink to get closer to the mirror I have somehow found the one square inch of countertop occupied by my open contact case. With my Little Guy. I’ve then dipped the tip of my Little Guy directly into it.
Post script to this story: There is a reason the bottle says “For external use only.” Contact solution in your peehole? Bad idea.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Verdict: Everyone In Florida Is Retarded
I'm at a loss.
I work in government contracting. A solicitation (an invitation to bid on a contract) for a contract in Florida was recently canceled. I need to find out why. I sent the following very simple email on Tuesday:
"Hello Ms. X,
Can you tell me why this solicitation was canceled? Do you anticipate a new solicitation will be released soon? Was this canceled permanently, or simply postponed?
Thanks,"
I received this in my inbox this morning:
"Please note; that the ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH have not been cancelled, what was cancel was ITN-DOT-03/04-8007-EH, due system fail and the " New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load.
ELIZABETH E. X
PURCHASING AGENT III
FLORIDA'S TURNPIKE ENTERPRISE
E-MAIL elizabeth.X@XXX.XXX.fl.us
(407) XXX-XXXX EXT.XXXX/SC XXX-XXXX
Fax (407) XXX-XXXX
"In Search of Love & Peace""
I've X'd out most of the details to protect her anonymity. Sort of.
In order:
1) Ah, the semicolon. Should have known this was a harbinger of fuckups to come. Rule of thumb- if you can't form complete sentences, you might want to avoid the semicolon. Its usage is a mystery you will never possess the faculty to solve.
2) A single solicitation (ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH) 'have not' been cancelled. Nice.
3) A single solicitation (DOT-03/04-8007-EH) apparently 'was cancel', and apparently 'was cancel due system fail', whatever the fuck THAT means
4) " New One" - this one is my second favorite. Note unnecessary quotation marks. Note unnecessary space between first quotation mark and 'N.' Note unnecessary capitalization.
5) Observe that the "" New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load." On line. Down load. Have you ever used the internet, Ms. X? Can I ask how you got the job answering email about information technology contracts if you're unfamiliar with such high-tech jargon as being 'online' and 'downloading' files?
6) Purchasing Agent III?!?! What's the prerequisite for becoming a Purchasing Agent I?
7) This one is my favorite. Check out her signature: "In Search of Love & Peace" Baby suggested she should be in search of remedial grammar. Honestly, she should be in search of a fucking job at Wendy's.
This woman has a very American-sounding name. I'm willing to guess she's an American. This is not a case of making fun of someone new to the language. She's also not an intern or a front line, minimum-wage type. Her title implies seniority. Beyond that, she's employed to be the point of contact with the public, meaning she should be able to at least read and write, right? Is that too much to ask?
The only thing I can come up with is that it's "Bring Your Daughter To Work" day in Florida, and Ms. X's daughter is fucking retarded.
I work in government contracting. A solicitation (an invitation to bid on a contract) for a contract in Florida was recently canceled. I need to find out why. I sent the following very simple email on Tuesday:
"Hello Ms. X,
Can you tell me why this solicitation was canceled? Do you anticipate a new solicitation will be released soon? Was this canceled permanently, or simply postponed?
Thanks,"
I received this in my inbox this morning:
"Please note; that the ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH have not been cancelled, what was cancel was ITN-DOT-03/04-8007-EH, due system fail and the " New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load.
ELIZABETH E. X
PURCHASING AGENT III
FLORIDA'S TURNPIKE ENTERPRISE
E-MAIL elizabeth.X@XXX.XXX.fl.us
(407) XXX-XXXX EXT.XXXX/SC XXX-XXXX
Fax (407) XXX-XXXX
"In Search of Love & Peace""
I've X'd out most of the details to protect her anonymity. Sort of.
In order:
1) Ah, the semicolon. Should have known this was a harbinger of fuckups to come. Rule of thumb- if you can't form complete sentences, you might want to avoid the semicolon. Its usage is a mystery you will never possess the faculty to solve.
2) A single solicitation (ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH) 'have not' been cancelled. Nice.
3) A single solicitation (DOT-03/04-8007-EH) apparently 'was cancel', and apparently 'was cancel due system fail', whatever the fuck THAT means
4) " New One" - this one is my second favorite. Note unnecessary quotation marks. Note unnecessary space between first quotation mark and 'N.' Note unnecessary capitalization.
5) Observe that the "" New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load." On line. Down load. Have you ever used the internet, Ms. X? Can I ask how you got the job answering email about information technology contracts if you're unfamiliar with such high-tech jargon as being 'online' and 'downloading' files?
6) Purchasing Agent III?!?! What's the prerequisite for becoming a Purchasing Agent I?
7) This one is my favorite. Check out her signature: "In Search of Love & Peace" Baby suggested she should be in search of remedial grammar. Honestly, she should be in search of a fucking job at Wendy's.
This woman has a very American-sounding name. I'm willing to guess she's an American. This is not a case of making fun of someone new to the language. She's also not an intern or a front line, minimum-wage type. Her title implies seniority. Beyond that, she's employed to be the point of contact with the public, meaning she should be able to at least read and write, right? Is that too much to ask?
The only thing I can come up with is that it's "Bring Your Daughter To Work" day in Florida, and Ms. X's daughter is fucking retarded.
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