2005-07-06 17:22:18 (link)
Just between you, me and everyone whoís reading this hallowed website, Iím 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 ďmadonnabj.jpgĒ.
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. Iíve moved back to Madison, Wisconsin to write. Oddly enough, Iíve written less often here because Iím 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 Iíll 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 Targetís shit selection.
But I actually kind of like this transition phase. Instead of wasting my days getting wasted, Iím actually contributing something to our modern society. On the other hand, Iím still planning on finding Evan Rytlewski tonight and saturating my liver with alcoholic matter in a venue of our choosing. Iíll return to work the next couple of days, making jokes with middle-aged Jean Teasdales about whether Iím ďworking hard or hardly working.Ē But at least thereís Andrew Joanis coming in this weekend.
If you havenít met Joanis, and you imagine him being a friendly fellow from his poignantly hilarious comic/blog, allow me to tell you that heís a vindictive cunt whoíll slice your motherís patella tendon should you ever impede his upward mobility in life. I imagine heíll be arrive as heís always had: carried by a team of Chilean eunuchs with a crown of titanium (that heíll 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 ďintensityĒ. And when he does, I will be readyÖbourbon in one hand and a bottle full of arsenic in another.
I guess thatís what this section of life is supposed to be. I never understood this when I was home, as I could cloister myself in my parentsí 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 Lordís Houses are reserved for weekends. Iím stuck in a cubicle job, but Iím pretty sure Iím the only one listening to a mix that has The Game and Neutral Milk Hotel. Itís a give and take with everything. Iíve never been a rebel, but Iíve also never been respectable. I never thought about clothes in any sense other than what smells and what doesnít. Now I ponder whether or not my screaming eagle ďFEEL THE WIND!!!Ē t-shirt will ever be allowed within the confines of ďBusiness CasualĒ at my work.
Ah, yes. Maturation.
by Mike Jones
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