Tag Archives: descent into madness

Have I Told You How Much I Hate Working?

An example of a sex doll: the RealDoll by Abys...

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First of all, I don’t consider myself one of “those” black people who, as Representative Sally Kern said, refuse work because I think”the government (is) going to take care of (me)”. Frankly, I don’t need it. I have my mom’s credit card for online purchases (read: porn and gently used sex dolls on Ebay) and big enough pockets to steal most groceries. If push comes to shove I can simply order Domino’s to the abandoned crack den on the end of my street, overpower the delivery driver and run home with my calzones.

But this; this is something I can’t do much longer. Yes, I do feel like an ass for complaining about a moderately well-paying job when people are struggling to find any kind of work, but I don’t care. Sorry. As much as I am an unabashed socialist, there’s a shameful libertarian streak I can’t seem to shake. If you’re not working it’s partly your fault. Nearly a fifth of black Americans are out of jobs and although you can assign a good chunk of this unemployment on racism, I can’t say it’s the only reason. Or even the most prominent.

Most companies are so greedy for profit, they would hire a registered sex offender so long as he agreed to work unpaid overtime and use his personal email to send crotch pictures  to his co-workers.

I promised I wouldn’t allow myself to peel off on an anti-capitalist rant so I’ll list a few of my occupational pet peeves before it’s too late:   

  • Management-speak threatens to drive me mad. The next time my boss says “I have to interface with my ex-companion on establishing a time frame parameter that suits both our personal needs” instead of saying “I’m going into my office to loudly threaten my ex-wife for keeping the kids away from me” I’m going throw myself down the fire escape.
  • I can’t go to another meeting. Is there any reason why I’m spending three hours a day meeting about work I should be doing? Want something done? Well then how about you actually let me do it?
  • I need to find a job with non-standard working hours. And before you suggest prostitution, know that I’ve already tried it and the johns were not gentle with me. Plus I owe my pimp money. I can’t go back.
  • More on the previous point: the standard 9-to-5 work days were designed because most jobs needed to maximize daylight. If I’m working indoors, on a chair that smells vaguely like the giraffe pen at the Calgary Zoo, beneath flourescent lights that chip away at my vision each day, why do I need to come in at that time? Give me a job to do. Give me a deadline. Then fuck off and let me do it on my own time. I like to work in my underwear, next to a bag of Doritos, so unless you want me to start doing this at work, let’s work out an arrangement I can stay home.
  • When I’m my way back to my desk with food, stop asking me what I’m eating. Do you reckon  the sandwich-shaped object I’m carrying is…wait for it… a fucking sandwich???
  • Don’t say “TGIF” every single Friday. Yes, I’m glad I can get wasted and pick fights with cab drivers later that night, but it still reminds me that I’m coming right back two days later. While we’re on the subject of TGIF, what ever happened to the cast of Step by Step? Did that show ruin their careers? If the daughter on that show hasn’t gone all Jodie Sweeten, give her my number.
  • Don’t insist I ask permission to take vacation. I’m a grown man who, aside from relationships and credit expenditure, is not a complete idiot. I’m not going to take off to Thailand for six weeks when there is a pile of work on my desk. Assume I’m not a child. I spent the first 18 years of my life asking for permission from my parents and teachers to do everything. Isn’t the only upside of adulthood  being free to do what you want? No? God capitalism sucks.

Ice Cream Villany on the Highways

I live in a neighbourhood where an anguished woman’s wail (and the subsequent clattering of a freshly used knife dropping to the pavement) interrupt my tortured, acrobatic sleep once a month. Within five days of moving in, bored teens stole my semi-functional car before ditching it, flat tires and bumperless, outside of a Native Reserve by Okotoks. I’m approached regularly for drugs and have been offered the sexual services of tubby woman in a belly shirt in exchange. The moment a semi-attractive woman offers me such a deal, I’ll find a pound biker crank quicker than Nicky Barnes. Every time my girlfriend leaves my house after sunset, I have to cover her from a sniper nest on my roof as she gets in her car. And I’m ok with all of this. I have no problems living around drugs, inflation-resistant prostitutes and the lingering threat of drunken cowboys braining me with a beer bottle on my way home from Safeway. What I do have a problem with is that on the inevitable day I’m held up at knifepoint by a biker strung out on meth, the police won’t waste their time trying to catch him unless he does an illegal U-turn post-robbery or brags about his haul on his fucking cell phone while merging onto 17th. Continue reading

The Week in Daniel: April 20-27

Times I’ve gone to the Co-op with my shirt tucked in my underwear: 2

Times Mason ran away: 2

People he accosted while on his adventures: 5

Number of excelsior wraps Mason fought on a Mexican family’s lawn: 1

Times looked at photos taken with ex: 1

Number of kicks to groin it felt like: 47

Times envisioned, in great detail, ex with another man: 7

Self-Loathing meter (0-10): 9.2

Week’s most nagging fear: Reaching 30 without building a sidecar for my dog to ride in

The Saddest Weekend Known to Man

 

HEY BUDDY, WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH THE PATHETIC WEEKEND YOU JUST SPENT?

 

It wasn’t pathetic at all. Sure, I remained sober and, for educational purpose and educational purpose alone, feverishly browsed the Craigslist escort ads but the weekend was, as a whole, productive. Not only did I start a new screenplay and catch up on sleep, I also hit the gym twice.

 

 

 

YA, NOT IMPRESSED. EVERY NARCISSISTIC HIPSTER WITH A LAPTOP HAS WRITTEN A SCREENPLAY.

 

Yes, and although I can comfortably lay claim to most narcissistic black man in the country, my script is more than just a vanity project to be woven into pickup lines at Vinyl. You see, the story is a spoof on the formulaic movie mystery studios seem intent on unleashing upon unsuspecting audiences every winter. The main character –

 

WHOA WHOA WHOA. NOBODY CARES ABOUT THE SCREENPLAY. LET’S HEAR ABOUT THE ESCORTS.

 

They were at turns old, flabby and as used up as catchers mitt unearthed after a half century floating in a New York sewer. Though I applaud the escorts for their efforts to stiffen my cock with overflowing tits and submissive poses, their come-hither stares were belied by the profound sadness of a sexual abuse victim. No, I am not above playing therapist in order to secure a discount on services rendered, but I was not in the mood to wipe the post-coital tears of Red Deer runaway.

 

STOP LYING. YOU CALLED ONE DIDN’T YOU?

 

I will admit the prices (ranging from $80 to $300) were so reasonable I had all but dialed six digits before common sense – and my bruised and battered pride’s 3rd act resurgence – stayed my finger.

 

SADLY, I THINK YOUR CRAIGSLIST BROWSING WAS THE WEEK’S HIGHLIGHT.

 

You’re probably right.

 

LET’S GO OVER THE REST OF IT SHALL WE?

 

Get it over with.

 

HOURS SPENT TEACHING YOUR DOG TO DANCE?

 

Two and a half

 

SONG TO WHICH HE DANCES TO?

 

A remixed Speed Racer theme

 

DOG’S INTEREST LEVEL IN SAID DANCING PROJECT?

 

Zero, he was far too distracted by the caramel popcorn puff that had rolled under the couch.

 

TIMES YOU THREATENED TO ABANDON HIM AT THE CITY DUMP IN FRUSTRATION?

 

Four.

 

HOURS SPENT HAVING SEX?

 

Zero.

 

HOURS SPENT THINKING ABOUT SEX?

 

72.

 

TIMES YOU CHANGED UNDERWEAR?

 

1

 

TIMES SHOWERED?

 

1

 

OH BOY

 

Ya, I know. Something’s got to give. In my defense, temperatures dropped to levels no black man should ever have to endure. Social life be damned, I will remain underneath my duvet eating chicken wings thank you very much. At long last we have found the solution. Not even the lure of fat white women and quarter ounce of weed can lure a black man from his home when the temp dips below minus 20.

 

NUMBER OF WHITE READERS WHO WILL NOW START CLUBBING ON FREEZING DAYS?

 

100%