In which I do not talk about my dog at ALL, not even her pooping habits, except to point out that I now say "poop" instead of "shit" because my puppy is an innocent, darling little girl who will not learn that sort of language from me, except for when I said "fucking bitch in a blanket" to her this morning when she pooped on the floor.
Ahem. Got a question? Send it to firstname.lastname@example.org and I will maybe answer it next week, because I have to go home and not curse at my dog some more.
I am in need of a job. Preferably one that pays piles of money, and involves sitting at a desk with a computer so that I can spend most of my day blogging. However, my resume doesn't seem to be evincing much interest in spite of my overpriced education and all those Real Jobs I once held before giving it all up so that my kids could tell me all day long how mean I am.
What is the ideal job for me, and how do I get it? Once my dream position is landed, I promise to buy pretty shoes in your honor.
Monster Network Just Doesn't Understand Me
(Whining about why this column took so long to get posted today? Please to all blame this question in all its hard thinkiness.)
Job hunting suuuuucks. I would lie. I would pad your resume to the gills and then get your readers to cover for you and be fake references. I will say you worked for my company and that we all loved you and were sad when you left to pursue that dictatorship opportunity in the Caribbean but we understood and even have your picture hanging up in the break room and talk about you all the time and then maybe I could work up some fake tears.
Also, Photoshop yourself onto a stamp and use it to mail out resumes. That'll impress them. Especially if you're wearing a tiara of some kind on it.
Actually, the country of Mordovia might actually put you on a real stamp. They don't seem to have very high standards.
From reading your blog…journal…publishing revolution thing…I can see that you are a productive member of society who gets up and goes to work all the time. And it even seems that you manage to talk to your coworkers! Talk to them…like they are actually people or something!
So my question to you, Queen of Everything, is this. How exactly can I get over my inherent contempt of my coworkers and begin thinking of them as actual real people instead of socially inept engineers who kind of scare me a little? How can I begin looking at the fact that I share a cubicle with three other people as a joy, instead of an incredible waste of my Master's degree?
And barring a solution to any of that, where exactly should I try to hide all of their bodies?
This is a tough one. I have nothing but contempt for 87.25% of my coworkers (one person is .75% tolerable), but I? Have an office. With a door. And walls. These keep the peons out. And drown out their insufferable yapping.
I have soft mood lighting so people who walk by think my office is dark and keep on walking. I am regularly told how "quiet and industrious" I am because I never, ever leave my office, except to pee and grunt at people in the coffee maker area. But they just think I am busy and important, which I am, to the entire Internet population who hang on my every word. La.
I have worked in cube farms though, so let me try to remember what it was like.
Okay no. Horrible memories just flashed before my eyes. It just got very cold in here and I very much need a flask. And a cigarette. And why am I clutching my letter opener like a knife and making stabbing motions towards the hallway?
(And how can I type if I’m doing that? Talent! That’s how.)
Fucking cubicle bitches. Loud talkers and people with body odor and colds and that one guy who uses his speakerphone all the time, for every damn call…it’s like an episode of Seinfeld without all the funny. And you never, ever get to break for commercials.
So advice for you? Six cement blocks and the Schuylkill River.
I am in love. He is perfect. And funny. And? He has a BLOG. Which he uses as a tool to write me love letters. Letters that he signs, "Peace and oh yes, love as well. ZB" As you can see, this is true freaking love. You will soon be able to buy us fabulous presents at PotteryBarn and Crate&Barrel for our wonderful wedding (invite's in the mail).
But? The internet is open to the public and his blog (which is written ONLY to me) can be viewed by just about anyone. And many of these nobodies have decided that they are in love with him as well. And they comment. Today? 540+ comments. Obviously this is unacceptable, as he is MINE. So, here's my question to you, should I show up at their homes and kick each of their individual asses? OR Should I post a comment telling all these wannabes to get their own and leave him to me? Help.
But could you kick MY ass? Because you will so have to. Because I loave Zach Braff. Yes. I even said I loaved him on my “Loaving” sidebar thingie earlier this week. (He told me it was okay to change it to the Snarkywood plug because he’s so proud of me and wants the entire world to go see how funny and smart his future wife is.)
Oh, and Jason Bateman? Soooo two weeks ago. It’s all about the ZachBraffigans around here now.
Oh, and this morning? I honestly used “Garden State” as a verb. Or maybe an adverb. Basically, I told Jason (who understands my love and will not stand in the way of my happiness) that I was a little concerned that my new Crazy Pills were making me “go all Garden State today.”
Haa. Am brilliant. Don’t steal that.
Because Zach wrote Garden State just for me. No one else. Even though hundreds of bazillions of people are rushing out to see it and dumping all sorts of pathetic, slobbery praise all over it, I’m the only one who gets the movie and all its Braffy goodness.
So, you know, step off.
(CALL ME ZACH BABY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.)