Monday, July 17, 2006

Back on the Chain Gang?

What I have to look forward to:
Well, I've finally committed to finding a job. In the least half-hearted way I can. Two interviews today, one lined up for tomorrow. I HATE INTERVIEWS. I mean, these were ok. But I feel like such a phony in a jacket, trying my hardest to convince some person that I'm capable of things and no, I'm NOT just an alcoholic shithead.

Based on my extensive research (read: string of failed interviews), I have come up with a 5-step fail-proof plan to landing that job:

1: When your interview walks into the room to shake your hand, repeat the following: "(Interviewer's first name), come on! You know me better than that!" Then grab him/her in a big bear hug, and try to grab a little ass (or package!). This works especially well if the interviewer is of the opposite gender. Well, really it works either way.

2: If the interviewer remarks upon your stellar college record, be modest. Wave away his/her compliment by insisting that your memories of college are hazy and covered in a thick boozy fog. This example of your ability to multi-task will impress them.

3: If asked anything about your personal life (ex: So, what neighborhood do you live in?) explain that you don't really have a *home*, and you spend most of your time in a dive bar with a group of old retired sailors, most of whom now have alcohol-related dementia. Attempt to initiate the interviewer into your clique by teaching him a long and complicated handshake, and make sure that it involves several lewd gestures.

4: People love curse words. Their use indicates a confidence that many lack. Motherfucker is good, but Cunt is better.

5: When the interview is coming to a close -- whether it has gone swimmingly, or things went horribly awry an hour ago in an embarrassingly irrepreble way -- search for a pause in the conversation. Look down at your lap, sigh, lift your tear-filled eyes to the interviewer, and whisper, "I didn't get the job, did I?" Try to make yourself appear as unhinged as possible. Trust me, they love it.

One thing that really makes me want to work from home: that Starbucks commercial in which a bunch of white yuppies are singing about making today their day and doing some kind of embarrassing stomp-type dance amused me once and now makes me cringe further and further into the couch with every viewing. Everyone who know me knows that I'll take a green tea frappaccino, or a vanilla latte, or really anything they have to offer anytime, plus my mom works there so I have some kind of intense and twisted Starbucks loyalty going on. But this commercial freaks me the fuck out and instills within me great trepidation about returning to the workplace. If there is any chance that I will revel in my three-piece suits and sing songs about my ambition while throwing back canned espresso, please kill me now. Please. Now.

Then again, it's possible that I am just a lazy hermit. In fact, quite probable.

My greatest fear: dying among a bunch of
assholes I've always hated

I promise I will be posting more specifics about Chicago life soon, and possibly I will also post about my trip to Michigan, and maybe even about this past weekend, which was full of debauchery and left me with the shakes. Well, really, that's probably all I can say about that without angering or embarrassing anyone, including but not limited to myself, Jose Cuervo, and the proprietor and clientele of a place called Swank Franks.

One more picture I came across. I think it's funny. I'm also evil.


Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Ted Danson is SO JEALOUS!

While having a cigarette with my co-worker Jose, I was told the most unbelievably fantastic story in the history of celebrity gossip. Apparently Jose used to be a room service waiter at an upscale NYC hotel. He explained how that job lead him to witness some of the most insane celebrity behavior, more crazy than what the tabloids usually document. As we enjoyed our few stolen moments in the sun, he related a story about the famed actor and director (P.S. Your Cat is Dead) that I knew would entertain and shock my long-distance wife to her very core.

Apparently, on one routine trip delivering over priced hamburgers, and champagne, my compadre Jose was faced with the one, the only, Guttenberg himself. Jose was in awe of S.G's Police Academy greatness, yet he pressed on to perform his waiterly duties. As Steve sat at the table in the room, attempting to appear somewhat buisinesslike, a hot, naked, cokehead bounced from bed to bed, attempting to distract the Gutt from the task at hand. As Jose dutifully awaited his much deserved tip, the girl plucked a green M&M from a large array of colors, proclaiming, "OOOOH, A GREEN ONE, YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?? YOU'RE GONNA GET LAAAAAAAIIIIIIIDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

What could Jose do, but await payment, as the girl mounted the star? (She must have known Gutt's 15 minutes would quickly cease, therefore, was taking her chance immeditately). Jose was astonished to witness that such a temporary celebrity could afford such a large mountain of drugs! His job was not to judge though, it was to serve.

So, here's to you Jose, I salute you!