Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Brain Soup

Sometimes-and by sometimes, I mean all the time-work kills my brains. When I get yet another degenerate gambler screaming at me in some unintelligible accent (Jamaican, Bostonian, Italian, doesn't matter..) about how his account is short five bucks because he can't do simple math or learn to navigate a fucking website because his grandkids thought it would be a hoot to buy grandpappy a new laptop so he could email them pictures of his new cat and type his entire topic IN THE DAMN SUBJECT LINE!!!! *gasp...collects self*...well, I just feel a little bit of myself die inside. I swear, it really is like these damn headsets we snake over our craniums every day slowly seep off tiny bits of gray matter with every call-like skimming oil off a pot of Pho. Then, they whisk it away to feed to a giant, hideous, cloud-like monster that feeds off of our very thoughts and souls-devouring anything of substance. But unlike Pho-where eventually after all that skimming you are left with the best parts of a savory spiced broth that is like a little orgy in your mouth when you add the noodles, flank steak, bean sprouts, basil and Sriracha-all this leaves me with is a steadily dwindling store of intellect, sanity, and drive for life. And that monster is the voice on the other end of the line.

Now, I've never met someone who I actually knew for a fact had an IQ of 70-but I guarantee you that I talk to at least 20 of these people a day at my job. On a good day. And by "good" I mean "doesn't end with me seriously contemplating the benefits of shaking my head so hard I get a concussion from knocking my brain against my skull over and over again." Yes, I know how hard that would be to accomplish. That's how god damned hopeless my work life has become.

Oh, sure, not all of them are that bad, and the fringe benefits certainly help-but aside from the occasional pair of movie tickets, iPod Shuffle or brief chat with a B-list celebrity, for the most part, I am dying a little inside every time I hear yet another middle-school dropout mouth breather posing as his girlfriend's "legal counsel" answer the phone threatening to go to the FBI over twelve dollars that was never missing to begin with. On the bright side, only 30 minutes left until my weekend! Then I can regroup, refresh, and come back to fight another day! Right?...Right?

......Anyone?

I literally just got back last week from vacation. God help us all.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Dear Cheese

Dear Cheese Stick,

I'm sorry you're forced to sit there in front of me, looking all delicious in your tidy little clear plastic wrapping-the soft white and warm, pleasant orange melding together in fantastic Colby Jack-ness. It's just, well, I have a job, you know? It's not that I don't want you-hell, you know I positively drool over those sharp little curves that make up that luscious rectangle that is you-but I have to make enough money to support both of us, and it would look really bad if they graded one of my calls and heard me...you know...eating. You're still my cheesy little goodness, it's just a bad time for me right now. I don't know...maybe I should have left you in the fridge at home-you had family there, ya know? The half block of Cheddar, the shredded Mexican blend (even though he was kind of an asshole sometimes), your other fellow cheese stick brethren-yeah, it wasn't perfect, but at least you had each other, right? You had a support group-you weren't just laying there, getting all room-temperature and soft in your packaging. You deserve better than that. Don't worry, we'll be together soon, I'll take you somewhere nice-like the break room-you'd like that, right? Yeah, the break room, where I'll eat you. And we'll finally be happy together.

Love,
Me

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Tis' the season

To forget about shitty customers. So, for no apparent reason, here is Marlon Bran-dough with a stack of dough dressed up like a male doe-which is technically a buck, but it's my blog here, so if you want to split hairs, go suck a d'oh.

Speaking of things that don't make sense, last night I was taking my dog on her normal 20 minute "This spot's not quite right to bless with pee" walk (the sweet momma one, not the demon), when all of the sudden these two mops-I mean rats-I mean dogs-come tearing up to us with their owner shouting at them, and they are piiiiissed. They were seriously all like "maah! We're evil little cockapoos and we're bitter because we're not a real breed! maah! Fie on you and your dog for bequeathing this ground with pee!" Also, I'm pretty much in possession of the worst reflexes. Ever. Young Anakin I am not. Ever heard that quote "he who hesitates is lost"? I would be the first to die on the battlefield in times of yore. I often reflect upon this minor tragedy of life-often while I should probably be reacting to the urgent-and sometimes dangerous-situation at hand. Anyways, that's neither here nor there-the point is, it's because of these "reflexes" that I have to almost manually engage, that it wasn't until the little beasties were almost upon me that I reached down to pick up my dog, who was currently standing with her feeble little chest puffed out and her head back-looking more intrigued than anything. Suddenly, just as I'm about to lift her up and out of harm's way, I hear the familiar click of an extendable leash and the dogs come to an abrupt halt-half choking themselves. Just like that. The woman who owned them had a leash on them the entire time and for some God knows why reason decided that the best solution to keeping them under control is to run after them, shouting nonsensical half-formed commands. As they're slowly pulled away (apparently controlling two dogs who weigh all of twenty pounds put together is a very laborious task), barking all the while, my dog and I walk back to the apartment, she determinedly snuffing in a very "psh, I could have taken them" way. Later on, as I saw the same lady walking the same dogs down the same sidewalk, the same 10 feet in front of her, I had an epiphany: I hate little yappy fucking dogs.