Our dirt bikes bring all the boys to the yard. Damn right, they're better than yours.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

I don't know why we're all so sad! Things are great!

Gotta take it all in stride, my cool, non-real mom used to tell me when things got me down.
Hell, brutha, that's hot advice, too. And sista.

So, I'm back on the "not-fired" list at work. That doesn't mean I'm full-time, or even "cool-time," since that wouldn't make any sense. But I do have my Saturday shift back at My Daily Newspaper, and a whole lotta ammunition for the court case of the century.

you see, I think my being knocked down to "not full-time" is a misguided, stupid idea. Apparently, and this is going to involve a direct quote some time later, my boss was "beaming" when "they used your story (at the writing workshop held here by the canadian newspaper assn) and compared it to "the Herald's boring version." My story was used as an example of a good lede, and despite its other problems, was touted as a fine piece of journalism AT A WRITING WORKSHOP. This "beaming boss, the unbeknownst "Cark Florming," is the very same insertion-master who threatened to fire me. So I may have to go talk to him again. And by talk, I mean, makeup a fake courtroom situation in my head and pretend to debate and wrangle legally with him, while, in the same fantasy, making out with my new, almost entirely flawless new ladyfriend. Can you believe that?

"your honour," I'll say, taking a break from making out, "I'd like to present the following evidence. It's a crown, made of pure talent, that I wear inside my skull to supercharge my greatness."
With that, I'd lean over, begin to make out again, and enjoy the cooing and happy sighs from the members of the jury, who are so happy to see joy and contentment in their empty, jury-plagued lives.
"Yes, friends, I was shot with the cool gun, and yes, I am fatally wounded with cool. I have a mere 55 years left to live before coolness overtakes my system, taking my life and sending me to Heaven 2, the new Heaven currently under construction to house me and my Jesus-like ffriends who have as many powers as Jesus, but much cooler hats and pants."

Then, lifting my robotic legs from the ground, and stomping on everyone who was mean to me in high school, I'd rocket off into the sunset, my horse-like phallus trailing into the night. But my pants would be on, so you woulnd't see it. Also, there's a good chance that as a robot, I would no longer have a phallus, vis-a-vis the case of Robocop, who was half-man, half-machine, and all dickless because Clarence Bodiker shot it off.

I think this is a really stupid post.


Blogger Chris! said...

Glad to hear you get to keep that job you totally hate. Who could ever hurt something as beautiful as you?

2:49 PM

Blogger mike w said...

Best post, yet.

1:59 AM


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