Letter Day 107: A brief interlude
February 26, 2008
As soon as I finish the songs I sings, I’ve already forgotten the words. The second I figure the meaning of things, the sounds becomes absurd. Letter Day won’t fix my problems; who the hell are you to judge? Lets get down to business.
What advertising slogans do you hate the most and why?
It’s more the dance, than the slogan, but I hate that Hey PeptoBismol jig. I can deal with the nausea, upset stomach, and heart burn parts… but the Diarrhea portion of the dance, wherein they place two hands over their rears (presumably to stem a hot gusher of crap) while grimacing, is unpardonable. Let me tell you something: I’ve had diarrhea before; I did not dance, I did not sing, and trying to contain the pressure manually would have resulted in two rank and scalded hands, shame filthed and forever unusable. How dare they teach that to children.
They manage to combine the banality of the Macarena, with the joy of gangshitting your pants in public. These are not happy things.
And who was the marketing genius that was all “Hey, can we work the word abysmal into our product name somehow? It just feels right.” Fuck those guys.
What is it like dating you? You seem fun, but a little intense.
Hard to say, Sarah: I’ve never dated myself…and generally had the good sense to avoid dating someone like me. Historically, it’s been a pretty dicey proposition…filled with broken hearts and random distance. Nowadays: entertaining, but a little surreal. Lets take a random (and truthful) sampling of events from last Sunday.
-: Ladyfriend comes over to watch Academy Awards. I split time between broadcast, snuggling, and wild boasts about how severely I’d beaten my cat earlier that day.
– I Described one woman’s dress as being “as distasteful as riding a mayonnaise bicycle on a hot summer day”. Suggested the French shouldn’t be allowed to win awards anyways, since they are unable to secure their borders against German aggression.
-Brutally mocked a 98 year old giving a rambling Oscar acceptance speech. Claimed his speech was longer than the rest of his life, and just as pointless.
-Informed ladyfriend “No company for Old Men” would win many major awards, since the Jews run Hollywood. Was proven correct in my assertion. Successfully parlayed xenophobia into a wager where she had to fill our water jug.
-Blamed ladyfriend for generating absurd amount of sleep heat, and denying me sufficient arm space. Speculated as to the biological processes responsible, as well as possible infernal sources. Implied she was in league with dark forces. Assertion was met with silence.
– Awoke. Claimed I was in the original cast of Jesus Christ superstar, as “Moses”. Extemporaneously sang jazzy uptempo Moses song to support my claim.
By no means an exhaustive study; but indicative of the terrible burden that romantic congress with me brings.
 Juicy bits redacted In the interest of discretion.
You are really funny. Have you ever considered being a comedian.
I get asked that question fairly often in person. Honestly: it’s akin to stopping a girl mid felatio and saying “Hey, you’re really good at this. You should be a whore?”. Flattering, in a way, but badly missing the point of the enterprise.
Got any office gossip?
I’m pretty out of the loop at my workplace, as I ignore my co-workers and spend most of the day pretending I am elsewhere. I have, however, witnessed (Attenbourgh style) one interoffice imbroglio that unfolded in our communal kitchen. My awareness of said affair was gathered piecemeal, over a series of months, during concordant coffee trips between the perpetrators and I.
Spineless Joe Jackson: A cringing, round shouldered, office wretch getting by on memories of pewee hockey mediocrity and truck repair shows.
Sand Blasted Whore: never was wannabe bar tart, with leathery tan and desperation white hair.
Sand Blasted Whore began grooming the married Spineless Joe about six months ago. It begins with constant mutual coffee trips and smoke breaks, deserts brought in from home, and picking imaginary pieces of lint off shirt. Blasty sees Spinless as safefire cure for her empty life and hardening ovaries. Spineless, who’s wife clearly has become bored with his mealy milksop ways, clings to Blasty as a last remnant of his imagined past vitality.
Blasty begins bringing homemade lunches in for both of them, heating them up in the kitchen microwave. Blasty lauds Spineless for his work ethic and possible future pursuit of ultimate Frisbee past time. Regular mentions of wife, and how little she supports Spineless, bubbles up. Much touching of shoulders. Blasty is bold in her pursuit, Spineless looks miserable and shifty…but clearly warming to idea.
Affair has clearly been consummated. Two are never out each others company…Blasty keeping careful watch over her illicit prize. Spineless is half puffed with less shame over his pathetic betrayal. Occasional subtle jokes are now made at wifes expense. Spineless is oblivious to enticing looks Blasty is now giving other male co-workers.
The fallout from their office indiscretion was subtle, but surprisingly uniform. Early into stage 1 the flirtation became a wide topic of conversation in the cubicle farm. An unspoken exploration committee was formed, to monitor the situation, and disseminate the findings. Midway through stage 2 both were marked out as Pariahs, and given sizable attitude. By stage 3 they were all but driven from the office herd; forced to subsist on each others company, and actually reassigned to different projects.
On a personal level I was shocked at how visceral, and hostile, my reaction was. I would often catch myself openly glaring at both of them for seconds at a time, holding eye contact with Spineless Joe until he’d cringe and slink out of the kitchen. It was all I could do not to smash his slack betrayer face against the refrigerator, until some ounce of decency rattled forth to the front of his brain.