Author Archive for Anonymous Coworker

It’s all about meme around here

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 16, 2008 @ 9:39 am
in uncategorized
. 4 Comments

From YNL, who tagged me so subtly I didn’t even notice. Ironically, she tagged me by submitting the tag in my collection of words the other day with the word “tag”, and it won her cookies and a book! I don’t think tagging someone for a meme has ever reaped such a fruitful reward. Anyway, onward.

What were you doing five years ago?
May 2003. Let’s see. I was working in my last job, and probably hating the bejesus out of it. Actually, I just looked it up on my calendar. I had a staff meeting (which was probably completely pointless and I probably stared evil death-hate stares into the face of my boss while she prattled on about all the things she was supposed to do but would be passing off to me). I also apparently had a “Task Force” meeting, which was probably just a duplication of the staff meeting but with different people. I also apparently needed to go pick up “poster board”. I don’t know what that’s about.

What are five things on your to-do list for today (not in any particular order):

1. Finish this blog post
2. Edit the wedding footage from Mokie’s wedding (from, uh, three years ago).
3. Meet with infuriatingly stupid people all day
4. Drink some beers
5. Rock my fuckin’ eyeballs out playing Guitar Hero! Yeah, bitches! You thought this was over with? This ain’t over with.

What are five snacks you enjoy?
Salted cashews
Bacon (yuh-huh bacon is so a snack)
Beer
Doritos
Nachos

What five things would you do if you were a billionaire?
Pay off all my debt (how boring is that?)
Invest in my 401k and IRA (wow, how exciting)
Diversify my portfolio (can it get anymore exciting)
Buy a nicer house, somewhere near the water (I guess that’s kind of interesting but not really)
A mountain of hookers and blow

What are five of your bad habits?

I don’t really have any bad habits, but here are five things I do that irritate people
Be too awesome
Too hilarious, sometimes to the point of injuring others
People want to be me, and that’s not possible, so they get mad
I have a pretty spectacular set of reproductive organs, making many people jealous and/or weak in the knees
The combination of the four things above can kill

What are five places where you have lived?
Catonsville
Charles Village
Glen Burnie
That’s it.

What are five jobs you have had?
Record Store Snob
Lifeguard/baby poop cleaner upper (no diapers in the pool, shitty parents! yes, that means you too.)
Anti-violence activist (seriously)
Lawnmower (I mean, I wasn’t actually the machine that cuts the grass, but my job was to mow lawns)
My current job

Hey, that was pretty exciting, was it not? No? It wasn’t? Yeah. I’m bad at memes.

You were my experimental rats and I didn’t have IRB approval!

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 15, 2008 @ 9:33 am
in uncategorized
. 10 Comments

I have a confession. The post from yesterday, the one where you submitted all those words? That was a secret contest. Everyone who entered a comment essentially participated, and one of you was the winner!

See, I never really check my site statistics. I’m not saying that in a douchey way that’s like, “I know the entire internet reads my site every day, and whatever.” I’m saying it more like, “I know people read because people comment. I could not care less how many people viewed my site between 2pm and 5am.” But then that made me think, “How many comments are there?” So I checked, and it turns out that it was almost 10,000. Ten thousand. I couldn’t believe it.

So I thought, “I should give something away to my 10,000 commenter,” and I know you guys always throw your two cents in whenever I ask for stuff that creates comments, so you did, and so I got a 10,000th commenter.

But then I found out that technically all the spam I get also counts as comments, so I’m actually somewhere closer to 9,240 “real” comments. Oh well, whatever. I already had the secret contest that you participated in without giving your consent, so we’re going to stick with the somewhat fudgeable 10,000th commenter. Are you pissed? You shouldn’t be. If I were you I’d wait to be pissed until after you find out I’ve sold your email addresses to spammers.

Anyway, the prize this time around was something besides the Berger Cookies I normally send out. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still sending the cookies. Of course I am. But I’m also sending a copy of the new book “Driving Sideways” by Jess Riley. I’ve been eagerly awaiting this book’s release since I first started reading Jess’s blog, and now it’ll be out in 6 days. Jess was kind enough to send me a copy to give out to one of you folks, so that’s what I’m doing. You get a book from an hilarious blogger AND cookies to boot!

So, do me a favor and check out Jess’s book, and maybe pick up a copy or seven for the summer. It’s a great beach book. Or if you go to the mountains or something, it’s great to read there. Or just out on the porch. Or inside on the couch. Or in bed. You can probably read it everywhere. In fact, you should read it everywhere. And when you’re done reading it, throw it away and buy and new copy, just to be on the safe side.

What? Oh, you want to know who won the contest? Oh, sorry. It was Your Neighborhood Librarian. I’ll send it, and the cookies, along once it arrives at my house.

And in the order they were received, no less

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 14, 2008 @ 10:14 am
in contests, games, i am so fucking awesome, music, nerd stuff, potty humor, sex and word nerd
. 23 Comments

It was the middle of the longest lecture on apiculture Charles Mingus had ever sat through and he was beginning to regret giving up his bass, a jazz career overflowing with accolades, and all the money, women, and excitement that came with it. Jazz was a ruritania now that he was mired in the minutiae of “fixed-frame hives” and “smokers”.

In his disclosure of his wishes to the president of the North American Jazz Association for Jazz in America (NAJAJA) to pursue a life in beekeeping he expressed his desire for change. Mingus chuckled as he thought back to writing that going from jazz to bees would be “vicissitudinal to his spirit, his lifestyle, and his artistry.”

“What a magnificent douchebag I was,” thought Mingus, “to use an archaic version of the adjective form of ‘vicissitude’. I must have just thrown it in there because I’m a stupid cockface.”

Mingus contemplated further his life decisions and all the women he could have porked as the speaker droned on about the need to concatenate hive structures and the benefits of the new singular hive designs shaped like an upside-down uvula. Back then any woman would have jumped at the chance to be his penis holster: to have his purple-headed womb-ferret wriggling within their loins.

But now that he’d left jazz women looked at him with eyes full of arsenic.

“‘Irregardless’,” Mingus thought, “that’s a douchey word too. Why do I keep using such utterly pointless words? I am a cock.”

He cleared the phlegm from his throat and ruminated again on the career he abandoned because he worried about being the jazz bassist who had shark-jumped his craft.

At the front of the room slide after slide of oblong, squamous beehives filled the audience with glee. Mingus saw the mostly-male crowd was unaware of their vaginality: their eyes were moist at the sight of beehives! These men were children, really, better suited to playing tag and wiping their boogers on each other. They had no place in the real world. He could take it no longer.

“Listen up, cats, we’re talkin’ ’bout bees! Yeah, they make that sweet honey, but they don’t make the world spin. Let’s cool out on the bees a while, huh?”

His shibboleth was palpable. A crowd of angry, confused, and irritated faces drove him out of the room, and he was happy to go, revealing his callipygian side as he turned to leave. As he reached the door the room heard a malevolent borborygmus, and though Mingus knew it was coming it was so violent and explosive that when it burst from him he pronked.

Paper in the lecture room blew everywhere, and the cockbag at the podium was knocked over by the bowel-blowout. As if by prestidigitation Mingus produced a full upright bass from inside his vest and made his exit from beekeeping forever, leaving a room full of arsemongers and a life of tomfoolery behind.

He was barely out the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The shitcock from the lecture was forcibly turning Mingus to face him.

Now that Mingus and the speaker were face to face, Mingus could tell from the speaker’s comb-over and threadbare suit that he was a parsimonious little twat who had long ago nerfed himself through years of coddling and penissockery. He lived a life bereft of adventure.

Mingus bellowed, “Get you hands off of me! Your life is a monument to floccinaucinihilipilification, you shit-faced dildo-sandwich!”

“Why, I’ve never met anyone so ribald…”

“Ribald? I’m the living transubstantiation of emotion into music! Sometimes it gets a little raunchy, but that’s what life’s about. You’re too busy studying insects to notice you anal-riffic meat-wallet!”

“… S..sir,” said the speaker trembling with rage, “I’d thank you to leave our conference now.”

“No, I think it’s time for you to leave you little cock-carnageous bug-fucker!”

And with that Mingus defenestrated the speaker. He then stooped over, gathered up his bass, and free from the inanity of the beekeeping world went on to write a song about the silliness of antidisestablishmentarianism on the bus ride back to his condo, chuckling all the while at the day’s douchebaggery.

And what, bitches? - ACW

P.S. Felching.

Drawing a blank

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 13, 2008 @ 8:54 am
in contests, games, meta blogging, the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs and word nerd
. 45 Comments

I’ve got nothing. Did you see that post from yesterday? What a pile of washed up shit THAT was. I can’t believe you even read it and then didn’t try to track me down to beat me up for having written something so completely boring. Ugh. It made pablum look like banality incarnate.

So because I’m so lazy I’m going to throw it out to the internetstertubestersuperterhighwayternets. Leave me a single word in the comments and I’ll make a post using those words tomorrow.

Sorry for phoning it in today, but you get what you pay for around here.

Gas (with only one fart joke)

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 12, 2008 @ 9:58 am
in POS Tercel, bitches, driving, potty humor and sex
. 3 Comments

My shitty, shitty car (which is still for sale by the way! It gets great mileage!) tends to fog up like I’m driving around with a back seat full of half-naked teenagers drunk on grain-alcohol and energy drinks whenever it rains, so it’s essential to run the AC to clear up the windows. But my car is the model of Japanese efficiency, so engine power is sacrificed in favor of the AC running. 94 horsepower drops to what feels to be about 60 horsepower, and the normally very economical fuel consumption of about 30+ miles per gallon feels like it drops to about 25 or so. Point being, whenever I want to run the AC, I instinctively check the gas gauge to see if the luxury of conditioned air is something I can afford.

This morning, with the needle on the fuel gauge looking like it was fellating the lowest line in the letter “E”, I realized that AC was a luxury I couldn’t afford, but needed desperately. So I pulled into the first gas station I saw on my way to work and parked next to the first empty pump.

I popped my credit card in the card reader, removed it, and waited. I checked the display and it said, “Please remove credit card”. That was odd as the credit card had been removed. It was in my hand. So I swiped the card again, and again I got the same problem. I mashed a bunch of buttons until the request was canceled and then got back into my car and drove to another pump.

The next pump I pulled up to was broken, as was the next one after that. Finally I just got in line behind someone who was already pumping gas, figuring that if they would be able to use the pump, so would I. I waited and waited. And waited and waited and waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. Then I finally realized that there was no one in the fucking car in front of me. The douchewhistler had apparently started pumping gas and then wandered into the mini-mart to acquire packaged pork snacks to help sustain a day-long siege against the olfactory systems of their coworkers.

So I pulled up to another pump, went through the whole fucking tap dance again with the fucking machine, and left, having spent half an hour accomplishing exactly nothing.

I pulled up at the next gas station a little further down the road, and because gas was 2 cents more expensive there than at the previous place, the station was completely empty. The card reader worked like a fucking charm, and within a few minutes I was back on the road, defogging the ever-loving crap out of my windshield.

Yeah, sort of about Guitar Hero again

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 8, 2008 @ 9:10 am
in devil cat, games, music and word nerd
. 10 Comments

To say that the game has devoured me is only half true. Having played before I knew going into it that I’d be presented with the intense feedback I so desperately crave from things I purportedly refer to as “fun”.

Not only am I concerned with what percent of the song I complete without error, but I can also dig deep into the song itself and find out exactly which subsection of which chorus gave me the most trouble, and with a brain wired like mine is, that can be equally enthralling and terrifying.

Every song that starts with a 50 note streak is the potential for my first perfect score. Every 100 note streak brings me closer still. 200 note streaks pretty much make me wet my pants with unbridled glee coupled with a snarling shred-face with prominent lip-curl. Like Elvis on meth. Then I try to successfully execute a coupling of the power of the stars with the terrestrial burdens of the ever-moving conveyor belt of notes and either screw up profoundly or initiate star power successfully, only to be so excited that I did it successfully that I fail to pay attention and again miss notes.

So, as you can see, not only has the game devoured me, but I have devoured the game as well, like some sort of recursive double Ouroboros, both of us deadlocked in a battle of wills to see who will blink first.

All the while Sherlock sits in the corner thinking, “Jesus fucking Christ is this magnificent douchebag ever going to play with me again? I’m over here, up to my hairballs in toys and that gigantic cock doesn’t even notice. Well fuck that.”

And with that Sherlock climbed into the massive (and embarrassing) basket we have that is full of “cat toys” with “cat toys” being anything we think they might have fun with and/or have already played with and shown some level of amusement. For example, some of the “toys” that you might be surprised to see are an old hat, the cardboard structural center from an old roll of duct tape, Happy Meal toys from McDonald’s, as well as any number of assorted toys that jingle, blink, have feathers, or simply have their various crevices crammed with catnip.

Last night, in the middle of trying to duel the end boss, Sherlock went to the basket, got a jingle ball out all by himself, and started playing with it right in front of me as if to say, “You see that you douchebag? Huh? Do you see it? You’ve ignored me so much that I have to play by myself. You are a bad cat owner, and I hate you, even if you do feed me.”

Seeing him half-heartedly scramble around on the floor with a toy he had picked out by himself so he could play by himself kind of broke my heart a little bit, so I turned off the Wii and played with my cat.

As soon as I finished the song.

I’ll stop talking about my wiiner when I’m good and ready

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 6, 2008 @ 1:16 pm
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, games, music, nerd stuff, ocd and sex
. 19 Comments

Because I’m thrilled that Mrs. ACW doesn’t look with scorn upon the Wii, the only video game system I’m aware of to have accomplished that feat, I am constantly encouraged to buy more games and accessories for our Wiiner.

So we bought Guitar Hero.

This has introduced a number of interesting behaviors that I’m sure will become full-blown OCD tendencies in no time.

1) It is impossible for me to not rock out while I am playing. I’m constantly dancing around and bopping along with the music, even if it’s The (remarkably shitty) Killers and the horrendous douchebag among douchebags, Brandon Flowers, he of the “ironic” pedophile mustache, is singing. I’m glad I got five stars on that song, because I’d hate to have to play it again. Seriously, does he realize that when he sings he sounds like a whiny baby with a poopy diaper? What a knob. If I have one wish it’s that The Killers and Fallout Boy eventually get into a rumble and they all die.

2) It is impossible for me to not drink while I am playing. Granted, I’ve only played twice so far, but finishing each song to take a swig from that fantastic, long-necked, brown-glass teat of diminishing fine-motor skills is about as close as I’ve come to paradise. I only wish that I could play and drink at the same time, sort of using the bottle like a slide guitar, but I’m not that good yet. And the game doesn’t really work that way. And I would probably break something. Shut up.

3) I have yet to master the “Star Power” usage. On the 360 it seemed to be a lot easier. Just pop the guitar neck up a little bit and viola: star power. With the Wii it can get a little temperamental, so the chance of you seeing me successfully execute star power is lesser than the chance of you seeing me successfully jerk the controller up and down like I’m some sort of spastic freak living in a fantasy world of tiny guitars that are attacking me for some reason and I’m trying to kill them. Also, I’ve yet to successfully pull off a star power activation combined with a Pete Townshend-esque guitar move, so until that day comes, I’m going to keep jumping and swinging my arm until I wind up hurting myself, which is the most likely outcome.

4) This is probably the worst one of all. Now that I’ve played a video game about playing a guitar, I totally feel like I can hang with people who actually know how to play guitar and talk about hammer ons, pull offs, harmonics, and fingering techniques. Double entendres aside, that is, which is what I would normally talk about if I heard those terms.

5) The best thing about Guitar Hero is that I can finally put into practice all the awesome band names that I’ve ever come up with. Seriously, I’m a band-naming machine. Need a band name? Just call me, I’ll do it for cheap. Ready? Here are 10 off the top of my head:

The Crap Monkeys
Flinger
The Gravymaker Express
The Rooster Pothole
Disco School
Satan’s Daycare
Forget the Alamo!
Windsock
Dreampickles
A Bucket Full of Pudding

Now you can decide if you want to ever watch a movie with me

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 5, 2008 @ 10:34 am
in bitches, movies, ocd and people are idiots
. 25 Comments

This past weekend I went to see Iron Man with some friends and despite every intention I had to have a good time, it was not meant to be so.

Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed the movie. It’s not going to win any awards or change the way movies are made, but it was an enjoyable comic book movie that didn’t take itself to seriously (I’m looking at you Superman Returns) or play things too stupidly (I’m looking at you Fantastic Four, specifically the vapid performance by Jessica Alba). It was just fun. One of us commented that it could have used more punching and explosions, and while that certainly wouldn’t have hurt things, I feel it is important to say I enjoyed it the way it was.

What really bothered me was the coterie of douchebags seated behind us.

Throughout the entire movie they were ridiculously irritating. They’d talk and make stupid jokes just until the point where I was ready to stand up and tell them to shut the fuck up when they’d clam up for a while. They’d throw popcorn at each other (or us. I’m not sure, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt) and I’d get hit a few times and wait for the next piece to hit me before getting up to tell them to stop throwing shit, but that piece would never come. The entire movie went that way. Five minutes of irritation every 15 minutes for 126 minutes. It was absolutely maddening.

It also didn’t help that the idiot man-child in front of me kept saying “boom” right before anything would explode, but his daughters were elbowing him in the ribs for that, so it was kept to a minimum.

(I’ve mentioned before about how OCD I am about movies, and you can read this if you want an extremely long digression.)

On the way out of the movie two members of our group went to the bathroom while my brother and I waited in the lobby. Outside I could see the dozen or so 14-year-olds, all with shit eating grins, carrying on and generally being awkward pubescent assfaces.

I wasn’t sure if they were the ones who had been such amazing dicks during the movie, but I didn’t see any other teenage groups in the theater with us, so I was pretty sure it was them. Despite that I was again willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and allow bygones to be bygones.

That is, until we were outside and one of the shrivel-dicks leaned toward me and said, “Yeah! Iron Man rocked, right guys?” at which point I lost it.

I was a ball of pure unbridled OCD rage and I was focusing my hate on the prick that had been unlucky enough to speak up. I’m not sure what I exactly said, but I’m told I called them all “cockbags” before getting in the face of the loudmouth. He kept backing away as I kept walking toward him, and I remember saying something along the lines of, “You little fuckers think you’re fucking funny? You like to throw shit and ruin the movie for everyone else you little piece of shit?”

Then one of the other kids told me to calm down so I got up in his face and started asking him the most ridiculous question I could think of:

“What’s your name you little shit?”
“What?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Nothing.”
“What’s your fucking name?”
“Uh… Joe.”
“Fuck you.”

Then I stepped towards him, he flinched, and I knew I had done enough. Or possibly too much. I’m still not sure. I never touched any of them, and I never would have, but I was still really fucking pissed. Then I remembered I had a bag of M&Ms in my pocket.

“You little fuckers think it’s funny to throw candy? Huh? You think that’s funny? Yeah, it’s real fucking funny. Let’s see how you like it.”

And I threw a huge handful of candy at them that I had been gathering into my hands as I was talking to them. I only hit 3 or 4 of them with the candy, but that was enough. I was done with them at that point.

I walked over to my friends and we started walking to the car. Once we were far enough away they started to laugh, and I could tell it was false bravado, but at that point I didn’t care what they were doing.

In retrospect I’m still not sure it’s something I would have done again in the same situation, but at the very least I hope the little shitfucks learn that if you irritate the wrong person at the movies, it could come back to bite you in the ass. Or throw candy in your face, in this case.

It’s really frustrating to not pick up the spare

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 2, 2008 @ 9:15 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, happy hour, nerd stuff, ocd, potty humor, sex, suhmuhmuh bitch and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 12 Comments

The happy hour last night was pretty cool. As usual, there’s never enough time to get to really talk to everybody, so there are some folks that I would have liked to talk to that I didn’t really get a chance to talk to. To those people I say: your loss.

Also to those people who ridiculed me for having to leave early to feed my cats, I’ll have you know that since Wookie was starving she ate so fast that when she threw up a few minutes later I could see that she hadn’t even chewed any of her food. Her vomit is on YOUR hands.

Finally, Charissa wanted me to tell a story about how I saw a little kid with poop on his face jump out of a car or something. This is what she thinks my blog is about. Well, besides it being a lie, because everyone knows I would NEVER lie, the thought of a kid with poop on his face actually kind of grosses me out. Apparently Charissa is into that short sort of thing.

Let’s commence with the narcissism!

My favorite event on Wii sports is bowling. But like everything in my life that I enjoy, once I begin to enjoy it I also try to start finding a way to measure it. Unluckily for me the Wii measures how good/bad I am at bowling for me, so I’m constantly playing games as fast as I can just to see if I’ve improved rather than slowing down and enjoying the game for what it is: a distraction from the restraining order issued by Zack Efron and the entire cast of High School Musical that keeps me out of New York. Wait. What? That’s not even close to accurate. What I meant to say is that the stats distract me from playing the game as a game.

So I’ll try to keep that in mind as I slow down and try to have more fun with game until I don’t get a strike and find myself screaming at the remaining pin, “Go down you fucking slut! FUCK YOU!” and then angrily mumbling to myself about how the game cheats.

Then I usually switch to boxing so I can punch the bejesus out of a goofy looking cartoon boxer and alleviate some frustration. It’s a nice healthy workout.

Because I thought “Wiit Power” was too inappropriate

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 1, 2008 @ 9:34 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, devil cat, food, happy hour, money, movies, potty humor and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 11 Comments

Before we get to the moist, throbbing awesomeness that is my post for the day, there’s some business we have to attend to:

blah blah blah happy hour blah blah tonight blah blah 6pm blah blah

Dougherty’s Irish Pub
223 W Chase St
Baltimore, MD 2120
(410) 752-4059

blah blah blah blah whatever blah be there, or be somewhere else: I know I will.

Anyway, on to the nonsense!

The night of the bachelor party I was actually hemorrhaging man points because I wasn’t actively engaged in the act of pickling my liver with as much alcohol as possible. In fact, I unfortunately spent the entire night maintaining a fine balance on the line between sobriety and mild buzz.

“Why,” you ask rhetorically because actually speaking to the computer is more than a little crazy, “would you deprive yourself of the sweet inebriating nectar that the gods themselves saw fit to excrete from their magical alcohol-producing organs so many Tuesdays ago for the benefit of all humankind?”

Because I was waking up early the next morning to go wait in line to buy a Wii. There. I said it. Are you happy?

Mrs. ACW and I have wanted to buy a Wii for some time now, but due to their relative scarcity we’ve been unable to procure one. Actually, we would have been able to get one a long time ago for about $600 on ebay, but Mrs. ACW refuses to sell her body on the street, and I just can’t bear to do another half-dozen equine-related porn movies. (I’m half-proud and half-nauseated to say I was second-assistant director on an official Harry Potter porn spinoff- More than a Man: Fisted by Firenze) Plus, let’s all finally admit that ebay is pretty much the squalid back alley of the internet, and that we want as little to do with it as possible.

The guy at Target told me to get there about an hour early because they expected there to be a line, and at 7am I was the only person waiting in line. And at 7:20am, I was the only person waiting in line. Thanks, Target guy, you unmitigated doucheface.

So I went home, fed the cats, jettisoned the previous evening’s mountain of snack food, had something to eat, and then went back to Target at about 7:45am to find myself the second person in line. Not too bad. A cold and boring quarter of an hour later and I was on my way home, not at all hungover but so exhausted that I may as well have been.

It wasn’t until many hours later that I was awake enough to actually set it up, and once I did I was immediately happy with our decision. It’s simply a fun gaming system. One of the things that surprised me is that you can even give your Wii a nickname, so I’ve dubbed ours, “The Wiiner”, which leads to hilarious conversations like this, “Have you played with the wiiner yet tonight?”
“No, not yet. I plan on working up quite a sweat later with the wiiner.”
“Excellent. The wiiner will definitely get you sweaty.”

And so on. For that reason alone I think everyone should get one.

Bad Behavior has blocked 784 access attempts in the last 7 days.