Thursday, April 20, 2006

Hello 4-20! Do I have Balls or what?!


Here is the email I sent to my Direct Boss, as well as a Blind Carbon Copy (BCC:) to my VP, as he and I are tight:

Greetings, I have to have today and tomorrow off for an extremely necessary decompression. If I have to come in, it will be to no one's benefit, in fact quite the opposite. I feel as though, if I try to work through any problem we have, it either is ignored and subsequently blamed on me, becomes a giant political fiasco, involves a lengthy explanation that is without purpose (Brad, none of this is pointed at you. You either Mwokozi), or even worse, a report on, quite literally, nothing while I am still working on said problem. I just want to fix the problem. As Kieth is the project manager now for wireless now, and Mike is much more technically proficient, this should not be a problem, especially since the major software issues have been addressed. If this is a problem, I can turn in my equipment and final expense report the following week. I really do love everyone there, but we will miss the once in a lifetime 1-3 year window that will never return in this industry if we spend so much energy in a circular fashion. Life is a gamble.

Afterwards, I realize it was 4-20, and then smoked a bowl.

And, who knows, sometimes all you have to do in life is ask for what you want.

Love reeder

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

"The Leash"

These days, no matter WTF you do, your boss (or, possibly, 17 bosses with undetermined responsibilities) is always right there with you, like a boil on your taint that just keeps coming back, over and over again.

And really, we can all blame Alexander Graham Bell, or perhaps James Clerk Maxwell, for providing us with the capability to be hassled by the fucking man 24-7, and possibly get brain tumors. Neural Oncology, I predict, will be an ever growing field from here on in.

The Leash=The Cell Phone=centralized control

People crave power, sadly enough, and this desire has lead us to become a nation of yes men (and the new and modern "Yes Woman!" with her stylish business suit)), who either work ridiculously inefficient hours, or pretend to, due to the leash. Your boss (or bosses), who says he isn't a micro-manager but really is, likes to keep tabs on you as much as is humanly possible. Guess what, we decided the old test plan isn't good enough, so we want it changed, and you have to do it. Didn't fill out your service ticket? Where's the weekly report? Where's the individual problem report? Bug report? Monthly report? Expense report? Where's the equipment requisition form? How about the project report? Or the project scope? How about the Executive summary? How about the 90 page report for the board, due while you are out in the field working on the very project on which you have your 47 forms?

I finally know where all the trees go to die. Their deaths become ours, as we wipe away any hope or happiness you may have had left with the terrible monotony of repeated, and repetitive, paper work. In the end, I think they have won this war, just so the modes of control remain in place to keep the seating chart of those in power.

And I have had it.

No one likes to wake up with a strange cock in their mouth, but we all seem to just accept it. Your professionalism hides the reality of our frailty, as though the social power you have gained through work has somehow redefined your mortality. Guess what, mutha' fucker, somewhere there is either a bus or a cardiac bullet with your name on it.

But hey, we all like to grow that fucking pile of electrons. Once you understand that all we are is chaotic yet measured changes within the ether, you see the futility of the chase.

Drop the Leash.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Little Dog Syndrome


Reeder and myself have both noticed an increase in the amount of women that tote around medium to small size dogs. Sometimes these animals will be in a tee shirt or perhaps sport a ribbon in their hair. Rest assured that none of these dogs have testicles.

Reed an I differ in opinion about the usefulness of dogs. If a $1000 vet bill comes between me and my little friend, little friend will be wearing a new wooden coat. Mr. Becker tends love and care for these furry friends more than myself. It's not our opinion of dogs that upsets us, it's the unspoken trueism that LDS (Little Dog Syndrome) represents. The real corn in the turd is the underlying sickness that hides in the dark hearts of women everywhere.

Are we being a bit harsh here? I don't think so. Let's investigate what these little animals truly represent. Women do have a lot of love to give, but are to afraid now a days to give it out to the masculine sex. Afraid because it means to them a sense of old school Donna Reed type submission.

No woman in the history of history has ever experienced this type of freedom and independence. It's gotten to a point where even a matrimonious relationship or any type of relationship with a man is a compromise of this new found freedom. A relationship with a man not only means changing to live with another human being but bearing their children and being bound by them as well. Here's where the dog comes in.

The little dog doesn't really cramp your social life. For the most part you don't have to change for it. It makes a cute little attache. It's easy to love. It doesn't talk back. Just feed it and take it outside to poop, but for the love of Christ pick up the GD shit off the ground. Anyway, it doesn't matter if it gets fat because you don't have to fuck it all the time. In fact you can still fuck whatever the hell you want. By wearing the mutt on your arm it's like walking around with a little flag of independence and saying to those in view, 'Daddy didn't love me enough!'

Reed and myself are decidedly against LDS. Not only is a little dog annoying in of itself, but this independence which it represents is tearing people apart. It's represents a barrier separating women from REAL love. I say take the little fucker out back and put a 9mm in it's skull. Cat's are cool though.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Lake Havasu - Never Go!/20 Year Old Punk Gets Suprising Reprieve!

I dunno what it was that clued me in that the vacation was filled with bad mojo, maybe it was when my lifelong buddy was rolling his wang off while the Coast Guard was searching the boat for drugs. Really bad. Were it not for a quick slight of hand, and a charming conversation about the national championship, I have a feeling many, many people would have gone to jail. A gaggle of Jewish lawyers would have been making their way to Arizona.

My buddy, Cyrus the fucking idiot, tried to light a cigarette with a lollipop in his fuckin mouth. A fucking lollipop. Then he got up and started stumbling and spilling his beer, THEN refilled it and spilled and stumbled a-fuckin-gain!! Right in from of men with scoped out assault rifles. I mean, what the fuck do you say to that. Reminds me of Reservoir Dogs: "Only one thing to do in that case: shit in yer pants an' dive in and swim!" God and Baby Jesus alone saved us from a federal PMITAP.

Whadya gonna do....

So, work is becoming annoying. I am starting to feel constrained, realizing that these projects take a very, very long time to complete, and have evolving agendas. Not unlike women.

The structure of the company takes some time to understand, and I have very little comprehension of the communication lines between Nabors and Epoch. Enough bullshit.

Brian Fucking Rhodes dun good, and life ain't so bad, regardless of the details.

Night kids.

reeder

Monday, March 27, 2006

Fuck You, War of the Worlds Rocks!!


To those of you think War of the Worlds was a waste of time and money I say to you this, “BULLY!” This movie has gone through the ringer this year. Look, I don’t care if Tom Cruise worships bagel-dogs and prays to his own stool. People wanted to see him fuck up and they ended up finding flaws that weren’t even there. Tom shows us that even in the role of the common shit on blue collar worker he can find levels of complexity. Like when his ex-wife is making herself at home in his house. He closes the door to his room as she goes by. I thought that was subtle and awesome.

“The Beard” is viewed through the Hubble telescope now-a-days since he’s an uber-director. He’s been a master of special effects since “The Adventures of Young Sherlock Holmes.” This film is no exception. These things were fucking scary. They way they moved, the way they looked, and the way they brutally killed thousands of people at a time made them the most frightening things I’ve seen since the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.

The people who hate this movie always say the same thing, “That little fuck Robbie should have died, hell the whole family should have died. Chad, this movie sucks and you suck!” Yes, Robbie goes over the hill and it looks like he’s a crispy critter, but he joins his family in Boston that has also miraculously survived. Yes, they survive. That’s the point, they survived! It makes this story that much more amazing. If you’ve ever seen a Spielberg picture, you know he loves to pull the sappy heartstrings. I liken this movie to Saving Private Ryan. When I first saw SPR I thought that it was ridiculous because why sacrifice all these men to save one fucking douche behind enemy lines? “Fuck that guy!” I said to myself. After watching it a second and third time I realized that it was the ridiculousness of the order that was the point of the movie. Genius!!!! Same thing with War of the Worlds, it’s about the life. Tom's story is worth telling because his whole family lived. Sure it might seem ridiculous that everyone lived, but it’s possible. In a post ‘K’ world the idea of an entire family surviving a disaster of this magnitude is something that should be embraced. What I’m really trying to say is, have a little compassion you dark assholes!!!

To sum things up, if you think War of the Worlds sucks, then you’re a hate filled anti-Semite with a heart of coal. Thank you.

White Guy in Chocholate City 2


The prodigal friend has returned to the Crescent City. This time I didn’t drive anywhere. The plan was to simply get pick up my vehicle and get wasted. Mission accomplished.

It’s a week before St. Patrick’s Day but these assholes are having a parade. They’re so drunk they don’t even know what day it is. They ride these decommissioned Marti Gras floats where they throw beads, stuffed animals, cabbages, onions, potatoes, and cucumbers. The idea is that you collect all the veggies and make a pot of stew to eat the next day. My friend Russ, his med school buddies, and myself are drinking in front of The Bulldog. This float full of liquor filled banana heads stops in front of us and is surgically picking off people with vegetables. It was all pretty funny and we’re avoiding the carnage pretty well until it happened. I looked down to watch some hot chick slip on a storm drain cover and when I looked up a GIANT cucumber nailed me in the face. The cucumber exploded and knocked me stupid. This guy with a hollowed out cabbage stuffed with a beer bottle looked at me and said, “Hey man, are you ok?” I just looked at him and then his cabbage, back at him… “Uh… uh… I’m a little… Uh… Hey, that’s pretty cool.” I said pointing at the cabbage. “Thanks man!”, he responded. I stood there for about five minutes in silence sorting through my emotions. Am I embarrassed? Angry? What IS humus made of? Who is this St. Patrick anyway?

The party continued at Parasol’s and then at this Jew-face guy’s house. With another successful trip to New Orleans under my belt I return to my new home in Houston wishing I had a shitload of cash to buy a house in Chocolate City.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

White Guy in Chocolate City


This haunting fear loomed over me as I entered the city of New Orleans. I had created this picture in my mind of a post apocalyptic Mad Max world of survival of the most creatively armed. Desperate men would be walking the streets capable of anything to survive in the ruins of a storm torn city. I was even more scared when I realized I had no idea where my friend’s place was and I’d have to make my way on my own. I dropped into the bar where the sign outside read, “You can’t kick the blues in a Vanilla City.”

A blue collar bar with friendly people that once they found out I was from out of town were very adamant about how the insurance companies screwed them. We shared sips from a bottle of Kentucky whiskey while I listened to the stories how FEMA and Allstate were a pack of shit eating cock suckers. I remembered that my host here in New Orleans, Russ Brown, had left a message with directions to his home so a bid my new friends good a good luck and off I went.

Russ was asleep in his chair as I barged in the door. I demanded he wake is lazy ass up and take me out to the local nightlife. My first thought as we walked into a local watering hole was, “Where are all the black people?” Russ informed me that this was the college side of town and that New Orleans was one of the most segregated cities in the country.

As we arrived back to my truck I saw Russ disappears as if he was sucked under my vehicle. I went to see if he was ok and fell in the same hole he did. Uncovered manholes are apparently pretty common in a city with no infrastructure. On our way home I came to an intersection without a stop sign or stop light and was in a collision with a local girl who fled the scene. The cop showed up two hours later and had no computer system and was reduced to writing the incident down on paper. There was over $5000 dollars damage to my truck and cannot be picked up until April due to the abundance of cars and the lack of help. What a mess. I now drive a rented Dodge Neon and consider myself a victim of Katrina. The medians are not maintained, blocks are still without power, but all of this is no new revelation to anyone who has a television. Still, this is why I came down here: To experience it for myself. Be careful of what you wish for and all that.


Aside from the accident, I loved my time in the Big Easy. The people were friendly, the women were beautiful, and the music was fantastic. I went to see Kermit Ruffins and his cavalcade of black entertainment. His entourage included a fierce tambourine player, a gospel style jazz singer, and dueling trumpets. I danced my cracker ass off.

If you read this modest little blog of mine you know that I’m a gambler. I hate that I did one of the most tourist-y things in the city, but I had to go to Harrah’s Casino. It had just opened the week of my arrival and I’m a sucker for the poker table. Again, there were interesting stories and fun people there. I ran into the second trumpet player at the Kermit show in the casino that next evening and he was wearing the same suit sipping on a spirit. “Great job last night man, you can play the hell out of that trumpet.” I told him. “Thanks man, where you from?” “Houston.” I replied. I had to look up since he towered over my 6”2’ frame. He leaned down, grabbed me on the arm, and whispered into my ear, “Everyone from here is there now. It’s crazy.” Then he walked on mysteriously.

Well, I can’t wait to get back in April when I pick up my car. Russ will be doing all the driving.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Artic Circle Nigga!!

When I am not sucking off truckers, according to Chad, I am sometimes called upon to travel to remote locations, and teach people to read. I call it reading, because, jesus christ, they have the tech bulletins! How hard can it be to set up a damn well. Plug and play people, plug and play.

Apparently, my time is worth about $900 a day. WTF, I was a stoned couch coaster not fucking 9 months ago. Not fucking 9 months. It feels weird to be respected, valued financially. Not to mention, I get to use my quirky mind for something other than banging away at America's finest young ladies.

So, its Alaska. Beyond any comprehension. I spend my time looking outside at the -35 degree weather. Snow covers all.

The scenery here is mesmerizing. I think I understand how Odysseus must have felt, as I feel the sirens call to go on a walkabout, to find out where the world ends.

BTW, there are no reputable medical programs in Austin. Certainly not at Brackenridge. Certainly not.

Cock sucka.

Live to love folks.

With some exceptions...

reeder aka "trucker cock master" out

Monday, February 06, 2006

Some Days....

Some fucking days, you find that you are miserable, your ex is dating a doctor and is totally happy, you have 6 projects going on, one of which is due today, and one which involves you flying to Alaska for a week, you can't pay for a traffic ticket because everyone works 10-2, you have a piss test you are scared shitless of, never have any time to workout, can't motivate yourself, and your ex is dating a fucking doctor.

And just when you thought you were doing fucking phenomenal.

It does make a mistake ridden idiot like myself analyze what the hell is going on in his world, and what the hell I want to do here before I become the ether.

Trucker cock indeed.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Girl Scout Cookie Time


It's my favorite time of year again. No, it's not President's Day. No, it's not Ramadan. No, it's not National Porn Week. It's girl scout cookie time. These delicious little morsels of sugary goodness make this rubenesque tummy sing with want. I don't think that the descriptions on the side of these boxes give these little delights there propers. I'd like to offer these alternative descriptions.

Caramel DeLites: An orgy of coconut, caramel, and crunchy cookie that with one bite will make you want to kick the Pillsbury Dough Boy in the ballsack. The chocolate stripes and coating on the bottom is but an attache to the flavortastic symphony that is the caramel DeLite.

Classic Shortbread: Buying these cookies officially makes you a dull bastard. Might as well just go down to Wal-Mart and buy a big white trash tin of Danish Butter Cookies and throw them one by one at the little sash wearing angel in your doorstep. Seriously, what were you thinking.

Peanut Butter Creme: These tantalizing little gems are the reason George Washington Carver was born. Chrispy peanut butter cookies provide the carriage for the creamy treat inside. If you're lactose intolerant then you're screwed because these little dudes are fantastic with any kind of milk. Goat milk, cow milk, buttermilk, human milk, skunk milk, it doesn't matter because they are that fucking good!

Thin Mints: Roll out the red carpet and make way for the king of all cookies. Put them in your freezer and prepare for frozen cookie goodness. I could eat these cookies out of the asshole of a dead Chinese. In some cultures the Thin Mint is used a currency. Scientists believe that the earth began as one single Thin Mint that was so dense that it collapsed in on itself and created the Universe. Thin Mints have been known to cure cancer, rickets, leukemia, and hepatitis B. Some believe that the obesity problem in the U.S. is a result of the irresistibleness of Thin Mints. The orgasmic nature of these little crunchy yummies is undeniable. If your local girl scout is out of them kick her square in the cunt.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

I Really Hate My Fucking Job Right Now


I suppose that if I was Chinese sweat shop labor working my fingers bloody attaching those little rings on nikes that hold the shoe strings I would lie to myself to justify my existence. I would tell myself that I was contributing to the world economy and my blindness and broken digits were character building. Maybe it's human nature to make the best of a situation in order to keep from suicide. This is the revelation I've made during the twilight of my employment.

Let me tell you about my working conditions. I live in a trailer. Not a double wide or even a single wide. A silver bullet has more amenities than the fucking thing I'm typing in right now. There is the constant hum of air motors and air conditioners. There is no kitchen, no television, and sometimes no couches. I had to buy my own microwave, satellite television, and stove. The internet is slow, the electricity is sketchy, and there isn't hot water in every sink. I'm in the middle of nowhere and I have to drive into town to get anything I may need. Every trip into town costs me money because gas isn't taken care of. "You got to spend money to make money.", my boss says. What a load of shit.

Now that we're on bosses let me tell you about this winner. Here is his definition of profit sharing. Money that should have gone for our Christmas bonus this year went to buying new computer screens for the trailers. Since we get to use the screens, that's profit sharing. Meanwhile, I didn't get my parents, aunts, or uncles any Christmas gifts. We did get a bonus but it was nothing compared to last years and came after Christmas. He pays his most experienced employees less than they deserve because they are so nice they don't want to ask for more money. There are no paid vacations, there is no weekends, there are only 12 hour shifts and a pat on the back. He's good about making you feel good about the job you're doing though, but there are only so many atta' boy's I can listen to before it sounds like utter bullshit. "You're a rising star in the company.", "You're doin' a great job.", all bullshit. It's just to keep you working. He must think that all his employees are fucking idiots.

I'm watching the episode of 'The Office' where Tim quits. I sympathize with him. Doesn't he come back in the second season with a promotion?