2005-07-06 17:22:18 (link)
Just between you, me and everyone who’s reading this hallowed website, I’m writing this on a Microsoft Word Document saved to a disk I found in an abandoned desk. On this disk are a series of pornographic images, some fake, some real, all hilarious. The mere coincidence that of all the jobs I could have come to, of all the disks I could have found, of all the desks scattered in this cubicle ghetto, at all of the jobs I could have taken, I came across the disk with a file labeled “madonnabj.jpg”.
Such are the random occurrences that make life worth interesting.
For instance, I should still be in Eagan, Minnesota, delivering the mail for the U.S. Postal Service. But thanks to circumstances beyond my control, I was allowed to retire early from the delivery business in enough time to pack up my gear and vamoose three weeks ahead of schedule. Which allowed me to find this temp job and discover the secret perverted desires of an anonymous co-worker of mine at this financial institution which shall remain nameless. A bit has happened since last I wrote for BigCheese. I’ve moved back to Madison, Wisconsin to write. Oddly enough, I’ve written less often here because I’m just trying to hold down an office job (which I am neglecting currently) to make enough money to afford trite shit like bedsheets and matching pillows from Target when I’ll go shopping there with my girlfriend this weekend. I used see those couples holding hands and discussing linen patterns, and shudder at the thought of that being me. But there I was, debating the merits of dark blue or red plates with Jessica. Thankfully, we both agreed that it would be better if I stole some housewares from the local dorms than pay for Target’s shit selection.
But I actually kind of like this transition phase. Instead of wasting my days getting wasted, I’m actually contributing something to our modern society. On the other hand, I’m still planning on finding Evan Rytlewski tonight and saturating my liver with alcoholic matter in a venue of our choosing. I’ll return to work the next couple of days, making jokes with middle-aged Jean Teasdales about whether I’m “working hard or hardly working.” But at least there’s Andrew Joanis coming in this weekend.
If you haven’t met Joanis, and you imagine him being a friendly fellow from his poignantly hilarious comic/blog, allow me to tell you that he’s a vindictive cunt who’ll slice your mother’s patella tendon should you ever impede his upward mobility in life. I imagine he’ll be arrive as he’s always had: carried by a team of Chilean eunuchs with a crown of titanium (that he’ll insist is adamantium) on his head and an rack of ostrich meat in his teeth as he has Suicide Girls fan him palm branches and whisper in his ear honeyed verses regaling his “intensity”. And when he does, I will be ready…bourbon in one hand and a bottle full of arsenic in another.
I guess that’s what this section of life is supposed to be. I never understood this when I was home, as I could cloister myself in my parents’ basement and recall the Jacks and Coke flowing through my urethra against the local building of religious devotion every single night. Nowadays, my micturations against the Lord’s Houses are reserved for weekends. I’m stuck in a cubicle job, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one listening to a mix that has The Game and Neutral Milk Hotel. It’s a give and take with everything. I’ve never been a rebel, but I’ve also never been respectable. I never thought about clothes in any sense other than what smells and what doesn’t. Now I ponder whether or not my screaming eagle “FEEL THE WIND!!!” t-shirt will ever be allowed within the confines of “Business Casual” at my work.
Ah, yes. Maturation.
by Mike Jones
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