Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Monday, March 14, 2005

Pixie Snort Handshake Contracts

Be careful with those damn words.

How do you do business? Do you conduct business? Do you propose it, transact it, or merely process it? Around here we make a big fucking cake out of it, lick the frosting off, kick the sponge into crumbs, and scatter those to the wind. Then we sell the stained cardboard from underneath and exclaim "Cake! Profit!"

No, we're not that delerious and stupid. There have been moments, though, when I question our clarity of thought and dedication to expansion. How will we ever become rich and conquer the world if we can't even collect our due?

I just discovered a job we did last October that we never billed. Fourteen grand. Once again I feel important. Fists were pumped in my general direction by departing coworkers last Friday. Hooray for me.

I started here as a field installer. Monkey see, monkey plug wire and balance on the ladder. Work evaporated and they took pity and made me a telephone tech under neon buzz. Monkey hear, monkey repeat with ever-increasing volume and pitch to the lowly braindead restaurant manager.

I sensed that I was expendable and hanging from wet bubblegum stretching to break. So I asked for keys to the accounting software and declared an audit. To my amazement they only blinked once and gladly handed me the needed information. Remember, I am a high school dropout, not an accountant on the lam from better dressed employment.

I went through three years worth of records to see who had failed to pay their bills. I organized these delinquent establishments by owner's name and started placing them on credit hold. I was hot shit. I was coming buckets when I looked in the mirror. I made desperate fry cooks blubber and whimper and call their owners. Nobody would get help from me until my boss was cackling over a hastily signed check that had been overnighted to his clutching grubby paws.

Then they cancelled my little poaching expedition and sent the lot of them into collection. Why threaten a hash brown munching cola slurping degenerate when you can assault a burger magnate's credit rating?

This made me sad. My petty authority had evaporated. I was relegated back to moping peon status. I shredded my project and nibbled on Necco wafers as I awaited the ring of the phone.

Then, lo! One of my bosses was fired, and another promoted. (Yes, and I still have three bosses. I get whiplash frequently. And you wonder why I drink?) They promoted me. I am now in charge of Stuff with a capital S. I order it, I sell it, climb on it and roll around in it like a retarded child with too many cookies and no supervision. I like my job.

Even when I get cardboard burns.
9:25 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm


March 14, 2005 12:23 PM, Blogger ty bluesmith said...


necco wafers? terrible. but i'll eat the whole tube if one is placed in front of me.

the stuff about what may have fueled your friend's admiration for you was a total fucking riot.

damn. i pump my fists above my head like jim brewer whenever i'm reading your shit, dude. and i swear it's not becuz of the illegally obtained adderall scrip that is the back/beat behind my all/out final's week cram session that will end Thursday at one with the first of a whole mess o Guinnesses, dank, fuentes, and all out obnoxiousness.

i'm thinking of having a party for a couple of my closest friends and alla my favorite bloggers. we'll get the presidential suite at the Radisson and puke behind the curtains if we feel like it and not tell them when we leave.

guys, you are all invited. but only if the ratio of hot girls to dudes remains at a steady 2.5 to 1 throughout the course of the day.

ty bluesmith ain't down with the sausage fest, yo.

i'll send my sixty foot navigator limo for you. you'll know me instantly. i'll be the red/faced guy with the pimp cup in his hand hanging out the moon roof yelling, "whoo hoo."

but, steve. you're in no matter what. it'll be a trip. i won't be able to stop talking while i obsessively change the porn dvd's on the limo's system and check the windows for hotties in nearby cars to yell "whoo hoo" at.

it'll be a real tooth grinder, he swears.

March 14, 2005 12:41 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Count me in.

The Radisson has a Presidential? That carpet better be yellow before I get there. Unless there's a balcony, in which case the carpet doesn't matter. There probably would be in the presidential suite.

You take care of the "whoo hoo" and I'll cover the "what what" and we'll have a riot. Sounds great.

March 14, 2005 1:33 PM, Blogger You've Got What I Need... said...

Don't audit me, please?

March 14, 2005 2:51 PM, Blogger bethany said...


you sound a little too into steve to want hot girls at your shin dig. i think you are more into sausage fests then you want to admit buddy. not that there is anything wrong with that.

March 14, 2005 3:15 PM, Blogger ty bluesmith said...

yeah, beth. you got me. nice work.

March 15, 2005 3:38 AM, Blogger if_i_had_a_hammer said...

like the new design of the site.

congrats on the promotion.

March 15, 2005 11:58 AM, Blogger Kerouaced said...

Another good read. You need to mobilize the downtrodden employees of your company and overthrow the current leaders in a fryer coup. When you take over there will be free electronics for everybody and there will be no such thing as showing up for work late. They will call you el presidente, with a small p, and from there it is only a matter of time until you become the big P in the White House. If you need help you know how to reach me.


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