I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

Christmas, a time for wishing you were never born

As I sit here, broken, numb and mapquesting bridge, Bedford Falls, NY, I realize that George Bailey had the right idea.

In the classic movie It's a Wonderful Life, George's uncle Billy loses 8,000 dollars worth of deposits at the family-run Building and Loan.  Hence, chaos ensues and George contemplates jumping off the local bridge.  Instead, George is saved by an angel and shown what the world would be like if he was never born.  Let's just say that it's not a pretty sight and he wants his life back.

When George comes back to the real world, the whole town has pitched in and donated money to make up for the loss.  He realizes that he is the richest man in town.  To me, the moral of the story is that life really sucks and isn't worth living when you are poor.

Unscrupulously yours

In yet another craptastic downturn in my life, I have been working at Macy's for the holiday death rush.  I have decided that Macy's is as morally corrupt as Blackwater.  In general, the prices of this "upscale" department store suck.  I often want to bellow out to people waiting in line with their $60 toasters, Have you idiots ever heard of Target!  The ridiculous newspaper coupons in everyday rarely can be used.  The incessant beating on the customers to sign up for their credit card to save the 15% on products ranging from a 10 dollar shirt to a $200 food processor disgusts me.  The poor old people that fall victim to the 22.9% apr on these cards saddens the heart.

The spiel starts with the fake sincerity of every employee in the store.  This mesmerizes customers into a false sense of security.  The following is typical of the transaction:
Macy's evil robot:  "So, can I put that on your Macy's rewards card?"
Senior Citizen:  "I don't have one.  I will pay cash."
Macy's evil robot:  "You can save 15% and get monthly coupons and other benefits mailed to you."  "It only takes a minute to signup."
Senior Citizen:  "You mean I can save $7.50 off of my toaster right now?"  "Ok."
Macy's evil robot:  "Great!  All I need is your drivers license and another credit card you have, and I can get started."

Yup, just great.  It wouldn't be so bad if they offered no interest for six months or something.  Oh yeah, I can only get an employee discount if I use a Macy's card to buy things.  Slime-balls.

Another issue that I have is with their badgering of the customer to go and fill out the online survey and give the clerk that helped them an "Outstanding" rating.  I swear this company is run by 50 year old queens.  Even with The Red's online satisfaction surveys, customers had a chance to win a $5000 gift card for filling it out.  Sorry, with holiday lines five deep on both sides at all registers , I don't feel like spouting this crap a thousand times a day.  People want to get in and out without getting fake niceties puked on them.

So, next time you are in Macy's, buy something, listen to the spiel, and say, Sorry, I don't want to be indentured into a lifetime of debt and mind warping interest rates.  Then watch the backpedaling. I would laugh, ha.

Have a fuckin' outstanding day.

Inapropriate children's Halloween costumes

This Halloween I was thinking of what funny or just ill advised costumes my kid could wear.  So I have decided to send him to his school parade as this:

I don't envision any problems.


Birthday wishes to everyone's favorite bad girl.

I'll take debauchery and a tan for 100, Alex.

In this, the second part of my musings on The Old Man's entrepreneurial ventures and rental properties, I would like to share the story of the Tanning Cabana. Once upon a time there was a luxurious tanning/hair/possible brothel business owned by The Old Man. This was located in a stately T-111 sided building which was slathered with a lovely dark green color. Positioned smack dab on the main drag of the town, it was the perfect spot for, well, just about any business you can imagine.

The Old Man had owned a couple of W***** tanning beds, made in Germany, you know the Germans always make good stuff, since the 1980s and everyone in town loved them. You could burn your back-side and get a nice orange glow on the rest of your body. There's nothing sexier, especially in a small town in the dead of winter. You now could truly play out all of your Miami Vice fantasies, even if there was eight feet of snow all around you and instead of a Ferrari you were driving an '84 Plymouth Gran Fury. At any rate, the tanning beds were located in various hair salons at different points in time all over the city. Suffice it to say, members of the family were able to tan for free. Yeehaw!

At some point, maybe in 1990, the stately building came up for sale and The Old Man pounced. Now, I don't recall the excruciating specifics of what amount of work it took to clean, gut, paint, and redo the building, but I'm sure it was hellish. Soon after, my sister, let's call her Jennifer, was hired along with her friend's sister, let's call her Theresa, to run the place. The Tanning Cabana was born! Times were good. There were four tanning beds in total.

Of course, with great power comes great responsibility, and Jennifer became drunk with the power. She handed out free tanning passes to all of her morally questionable bar fly friends. Now, I have no actual proof that any money changed hands or anything of the kind took place, and I did hand out my share of the free Tanning, Cabana passes to witless college chicks, but let's just say things happened on the couch in the reception area that would qualify the place as a den of ill-repute.

After awhile the whole tanning business was played out and The Old Man converted the building to apartments. It housed the usual forty ounce beer drinkin', five packs a day smokin', toothless riffraff, but hey, it's rent money right?

Recently, The Old Man sold the building and tears were shared by the whole family. I can assume from this Google Street View picture:

the building is now barber shop, hence the barber poles on the outside. Interestingly enough, I have received word that the new owners were cleaning out the basement and discovered a hidden room laden with what can only be described as a "pirate's booty", pictured here:

The room was filled with gold doubloons and gems of all types; the new owners are now multimillionaires.

                                (Tanning Cabana pirate room, artist's rendition)

So, that is the sordid but illustrious story of the Tanning Cabana.

You are too dumb to do things the normal way, buy this new product.

Have you ever really watched any infomercial?  These things are filled with people displaying over exaggerated facial expressions and failing at accomplishing normal everyday tasks. Take for example the Windshield Wonder commercial.  It shows various people struggling with cleaning glass and almost asphyxiating to death.  Behold:

What exactly does this chick use for glass cleaner?  Mustard gas?  Sarin?

Another wretched commercial that I despise is the dreaded Snuggie.   I know that like you, blankets fly off me with not a moments notice.  I need something that I can wear around to make me look like a monk.

(My knees are freezing and this M****** F****** phone keeps ringing!) 

Another ad that is hilarious and disturbing, is the one for Sure Clip nail clipper.  It comes with a magnifying glass with a led light on it.  So next time you have friends over that may have trouble reading the paper or a food label, just give them your dirty Sure Clip to help them read.

(Here you go Aunt Betty.  Don't mind the toe jam)

Another brutal assault on the intelligence is the Touchnbrush toothpaste dispenser system.  Apparently there are millions of people out there that just don't know their own strength or suffer from clubbed hands. Obviously, putting toothpaste on the toothbrush is just too damn difficult by normal means.  Observe:

(Oops!  Damn this giant forearm!)

(Honey, did you let the blind monkey brush his own teeth again?) 

 I failed at finding the commercial with the usual idiot mashing the tomato to death with a dull butter knife, but you get my gist.

Brain Static For Sale

I've setup a Cafepress.com store to sell various DeathBecomesMe themed junk and the like.  The site is located at: http://www.cafepress.com/DeathBecomesMe

And here's the first batch:



Ask Eric

As a new feature to the blog suggested by, let's call him Chad, I have decided to start my own advice column. In this column I will impart my own special brand of knowledge and wisdom for a better life. So just reply to this post and leave your questions as a comment and I will answer as soon as possible.

Brace yourself for...mediocrity

You know people, I'm not one to get excited about much, but this whole "Earth getting obliterated" on Dec 21st 2012 has my bratwurst standing at attention. If you haven't heard of this impending blissful doom, I will impart some knowledge to you. The Mayan calendar officially ends in 2012 and hence, they believe that something heinous will happen to the planet and alter humanity forever. Nostradamus also believes in such cool things happening in the very near future. I know that you're just itchin' to hear what great things are going to happen in 2012. Well kids, there will be a happening called a galactic alignment in which the sun will line up with the center of the milky-way galaxy. Some say that this will cause the Earth to reverse its magnetic polarity, thus causing a massive EM pulse and wreaking havoc on the power grid and every electronic gadget on the planet.

Some also say that the galactic alignment could trigger supervolcanos, massive hurricanes, and planet crushing earthquakes. Yeehaw! I know. I know. Yes, I am grinning from ear to ear.

Alas, I have already surmised what will end up happening on 12/21/2012. Jack shit. I will, unfortunately, wake up, make my coffee, get dressed, drive to whatever horrible low-paying godforsaken, Drano-for-the-brain job that I hold and wait patiently for the next planet killing cosmic event.

The Target Spirit-Killing Chant

Why am I always surrounded by shiny happy gung-ho sheeple?  At The Red, there are little meetings called Team Huddles.  They are impromptu gatherings in various aisles during the shift.  Huddles are meant to gather up the Borg drones and disperse orders and other store information.  If you come across one of these while shopping for toys and patio furniture, please, try not to stare.  There are bound to be at least two worker drones that are not yet fully assimilated into The Red Collective.  If you make eye contact with this version, you may get in tune with their brutal inner-mind screaming and your ears may start to bleed.

Occasionally, one of the life-long "retail work is the greatest job ever" managers, will do something in the huddle that makes me want to tear open one of the cutlery sets and wield a serrated steak knife around.  At the end, we all must thrust our fists into the center of the huddle circle and one worker chants.  My inner ear lid automatically shuts at this time, for my own mental safety, so I do not recall what is actually said.  I'm usually quite adept at reading lips, but at this point my eyes are filled will red and I can't see a damn thing.

This brings me to a quandary.  What is the exact purpose of this fisting-chant thing?  Is it really to drain every ounce of chutzpah left in The Red's drone workforce?  Is it really meant to club the baby seal of thought out of the mob?  Is it... come on I could go on forever.  Or maybe it is that the average Target worker is completely devoid of any longing for a better life.  Maybe they have never uttered something like:  "Hey, there has to be something more to life than straightening shelves for 9 hours a day with only a federally mandated 45 minute break."  I reckon that in the manager's mind, all the fists together and the lone drone chanting is designed to brainwash the thinking-challenged in a cult-esque manner.  I don't need to be part of some collective team spirit bullshit to make me all warm and fuzzy inside.  That's why I hate organized sports.  I'm a lone wolf baby.  I maybe over analyzing, but I don't think so.

So please, when you are wandering around The Red with your little toy aisle destroying asshole of a kid, rest assured, that somewhere in the back room, there is drone unhooking his head clamp from the pod and is happily ready to straighten the Lego aisle.  Yay! Target.

After a while you don't really notice the pee smell.

You know, the thought of moving to the Big O is like buying a scratch off lottery ticket and the prizes are: Flesh-eating bacteria, getting knee-capped, or drowning in your own vomit.  So I've decided to make a Pros and Cons list. Oh sure, I have a couple of different options, and one really good one, but that would require medical intervention to treat someone's OCD and sex addictions.  So unfortunately, the old estate is probably the, gulp, cry, only one.

Get to save some money
Get to be with my parents in their last remaining wretched years of life
All the snow I can possibly stomach
Hearing the phrase: Nazi bitch 10 times a day
Three elegant upstairs rooms in which to plan my death
Get to quit The Red

Get to be with my parents in their last remaining wretched years of life
All the snow I can possibly stomach
Undoubtably, some drunk will sideswipe my car on the street
The TV is on at 600 decibels
45 minute ride to and fro to the salt mine everyday
Four words: Frank and Marie Barone
Dog pee
No Wegman's 
Knotty pine
Not a Panera in sight
Hearing the phrase: Nazi bitch 10 times a day

As you can plainly see, the near future is going to be agonizing.

FOR SALE: Quaint country farm house/portal to Hell.

This is the first in my three part series outlining the luxury rental properties of The Old Man. Like an in-ground pool, having rental properties in the old hometown is also a sign of "making it." The best known and all around coolest was affectionately known as the Funhouse, or The Ponderosa. It was a great white farmhouse way out in the country. Its sprawling grounds and gorgeous Georgian architecture were beloved by the locals. Well, this is what The Old Man thought when first laying his eyes on the property. The Old Man and his son, let's call him Al Jr. purchased the white beauty in hopes of cashing in on the rent the multi-room building would bring. Plus, it was in the perfect location. About two miles away was one of the areas nuclear power plants. Surely, contract workers from other parts of the country would love to live that close to their work.
Soon, The Old Man's work force (i.e., his kids), were indentured into getting the Funhouse ready for tenants. Upon entering the dwelling, an overwhelming sense of fear and dread smothered you. Maybe it was just that I was young, but I don't think so. One time, I happened to be in the dinning room alone with my sister, let's call her Jennifer, suddenly I heard: "Hello Eric", emanating from all around. Jennifer also heard something say: “Hello, Jennifer" to her. We both high-tailed it out of the house screaming.

Not long after that, we found out that the previous owner had died outside in the front driveway. Apparently, the dead owner, seemingly pleasant by saying hi to us, still felt the need to smother us with his ectoplasm. I never could walk through that place without feeling scared beyond all reason.
Well, remember I told you about how prospective tenants would love the place? They did. In particular, Tennessee hillbillies. They all flocked to the Funhouse. Something about flake-board covered walls just attracts hicks like a moth to the flame. With that, the house filled to the brim with hillbillies.

Unfortunately, for The Old Man, and his sons, hillbillies are a dirty lot. Soon the Funhouse required some cleaning and maintenance. The best crew The Old Man had was then dispatched. To protect the innocent, I will call them, Robert, Chris, and Craig. Now I do not have first-hand knowledge of the following, but it comes from a trustworthy source. In the movie Salem's Lot, the Marsten House was the set piece for most of the action. Its' walls and floors were covered with an evil black chalky-like substance. This too is how the inside of the Funhouse looked-covered in black filth. You know, those hillbillies can really drink too. I'm not talking about bottled water. And, what is every rebel's drink of choice? That is right! Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey. There were two five-foot high cardboard boxes overflowing with empty Jack Daniel's bottles. It was truly an awesome site. Praise the Lord. With little bitching, the fantastic crew made quick work of the cleanup.

But all was not right with the The Old Man’s rental property. In fact, the Funhouse was a big steaming pile of shit. Also, something sinister seamed to be going on. As you can imagine, the Yankee ghost didn't like having all of these southern gentlemen around and he wanted them gone. The Old Man was constantly at the Funhouse fixing things that mysteriously would break. What could be wrong with this place? thought The Old Man. Then the Funhouse was struck by lightning, not once, but twice. It was time to unload the satanic country estate. Finally, after an excruciating amount of time The Old Man and Al Jr. were able to sell money pit. Interestingly enough, the man who purchased the Funhouse, struck oil out in the back shed and is now a billionaire.

Next time friends, a building near and dear to all of our hearts: The Tanning/Hair Salon/ and possible brothel.

Official Death Becomes Me Movie List

This week I will be unleashing my list of recommended movies. Each of them will have some sort of horrible gut-wrenching life is a mess type of plot to them. In no particular order of course. I will update this list as I see fit.

A miserable accountant working in a cube farm finds out that he has special powers. (James McAvoy, Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman, Thomas Kretschmann)

An aspiring Irish actor moves his family to the slums of New York City in the 1980's. Get out the tissues for this one. (Patrick Considine, Samantha Morton)

Normally, I'm all for gratuitous sex in movies, but this one makes me want to put a knife in the nearest woman. (Diane Lane, Richard Gere)

A lonely butcher living with his mother tries to find someone to marry in 1950's New York City. (Ernest Borgnine)

German soldiers freeze to death in Russia. If you find this, get the German version with English subtitles. The dubbed version is god-awful. (Thomas Kretschmann)

Der Untergang (Downfall)
Marvel as Nazi fanatics poison, shoot themselves and their families in the last days of WWII. This is the movie with the original scenes of Hitler yelling at his generals in various spoof viral videos. (Bruno Ganz, Thomas Kretschmann, Alexandra Maria Lara)

Falling Down
An unemployed defense worker goes postal on LA. Hilarious really. (Michael Douglas, Robert Duvall)

Leaving Las Vegas
A down and out movie executive goes to Las Vegas to drink himself to death and he meets the hooker of his dreams. Uplifting trust me. (Nicolas Cage, Elisabeth Shue (booyah!))

What Dreams May Come
After the death of their two children in a car accident, a couple grapples with the loss. Brutal to watch. (Robin Williams, Annabella Sciorra)

My company has the safety bug stuck in its craw. Granted, we have many construction and other dangerous projects that require a high degree of safety precautions. I can agree with this aspect. However, my company is run like a quasi-military organization. Its managers are comp-case fearing spirit killers. All of these precautions have spilled over into the office. This fear of being sued has lead to a massive propaganda campaign to impose a whole safety culture over the office. Year after bloody year employees are expected to complete online safety seminars-on their own time mind you. Every meeting has to have time reserved for a safety moment. These safety moments are nothing more than commonsense statements. The following exchange is typical.

Nameless Drone: “When I was at work this weekend putting in some extra time on my 2253C project, I backed out of my parking space and hit a pylon. From now on I will always turn my head around and look behind me when I backup.”

All: “Good one. That’s really important.”

There are times when my group does not have its’ little weekly meeting. I envision us all in headgear and wrapped in bubble wrap continuously ramming into walls and falling down stairs because we missed the safety moment. We will occasionally get emails detailing some science geek having his roller chair slipping out from under him and being tossed. Ha! That was a funny one. Hence, all plastic computer chair mats have been banished. The Safety Gestapo conducted and audit in our old building one time. Computer cables were duct taped out of the way and chairs were replaced. Even though there is a state law banning smoking in public places, some horrible “This is a non-smoking building” clipart- laden signs now graced all doors to the office.

So thank you annoying multi-national corporation for trying to impose your anal safety practices on my already superb life. I’m off to wrestle an alligator. It must not be dangerous. It hasn't come up in a safety moment yet.


A big happy one year closer to death goes out to Craig today.
Treat yourself to a nice turkey wrap.

The Garmin 265WT NAG GPS

The other day I was in Radio Shack with my buddy from the salt mine looking for a GPS for his wife. A great idea dawned on us. What if the voice on the unit had a nag option for the husband on the road away from home? Currently, we are in development of software that can be purchased as a download. As of today, Marlene, from Long Island, is the only voice we have compiled.

Here things like: "Oh my gawd, did you just pass a Starbucks?" and "Slow down! I'm trying to put on my lipstick." If you are feeling frisky, and attempt to touch the wrong button, Marlene will give the usual: "Leave me alone, it's not Saturday" or "You just got it last week." And the ever popular: "What are you doing down there?"

Alas, Marlene is an obstinate bitch and the best directions we've gotten out of her are: "Turn left at the place we ate dinner at on our second date." Another bug that we have to work out has to do with the Bluetooth option. Marlene will use your cellphone to call her sister and talk the whole trip.

Hopefully, we can iron these little issues soon. We envision adding multiple ethnicities so even Mr. Lei can be nagged by Misaki from San Francisco.

How do you make black frosting?

It's time again for another reason to drown your sorrows in alcohol and butter cream frosting.  Yes, I'm talking about the yearly birthday.  There are many milestones to celebrate in life based on your age. Your 13th, 16th, and 21st are the most fun and really the last good birthdays.  All the rest are just fillers until the sweet release that is death.

You may ask "Eric, you are so happy and devoid of want, what could you possibly need for your birthday?"  The answer is, an electric can opener. My current can opener is lying in the bottom of the garbage can under the mangled can of tuna it failed miserably to open.  It is one of those can openers which cuts from the side and attempts to leave smooth edges.  These can openers were made famous in the Everybody Loves Raymond episode entitled: "The Can Opener."

Mostly, the can opener blade just spins around and chops a few gashes and laughs at me.  Inevitably, tuna juice, Bush's Baked Beans, or whatever delicacy that I'm about to enjoy will spill all over the counter.  Luckily, Progresso soup, the main staple of my diet, has cans that have the pop-tops on them.

So if any of you are in the small appliance isle somewhere, slap a bow on that Oster and put it in the mail.

Making personal calls in a cubicle is a bitch.

My company has recently relocated to a much nicer building with such amenities as a working hvac system and a coffee machine.  The coffee machine in the old building was one of those big metal industrial ones. The limescale in it was so great that it dispensed pumice.  Our heating and air conditioning system blew toxic mold into everyone's office.  It was so cold in the winter I would have to wear gloves.  The building's maintenance man's only qualification was that he lived across the street.  The thermostat that controlled the zone by me just happened to be located in woman's office with all of the health problems and comp cases.  Hence, it was always set at the opposite of what a normal person would have it on.

There is one downside to the new salt mine, cubicles!  Yes, cubicles, the deployment system of uniformity.  In the old building everyone had their own office.  This was very convenient when you had to talk on the phone.  Loud talkers could just shut the door and jaw all they wanted.  As you can imagine it is quite impossible to scream at your ex or have a phone interview with another company with 85 people listening.

Some corporate whores may say you shouldn't take personal calls at work.  That's fine.  If they want to lick the boots and kiss the ass of the nearest middle manager, I'll watch their backbone shrivel and dry up on my way to the unemployment line.  Whatever.

A man's box is his castle

Soon to be the new home of Sam and Eric:

I got a good deal on a low fixed apr 30 yr mortgage. You can't see it from the picture, but there is a nice little deck in the back. Well, actually it's just a palette that Sam and I can take turns sitting on. I was going to pay extra for the sun room model, but I just figured I could cut a hole in roof with my sharp knife. I don't know, I may give it a nice coat of Thompson's Waterseal to keep out some of the rain and snow. Or, I have some spray wax that I had for my former car, damn repo guy. Decisions. Decisions. I will post my mailing address after we move in.

Don't talk to me, I'm trying to shit.

People in my office have an insatiable need to talk to others in the bathroom.  Call it lacking in manners or just being completely void of couth.  You know that if someone is next to you in the urinal, you will hear: "So, how's it going?"   For one, I'm trying to piss here jackass.  Two, how do you think it's going?  It's Eric you're talking to stupid.  Also, if you do happen to be on the toilet and someone is just in the bathroom washing their hands or something, they will take their time in the hopes that they get to see who comes out of the stall.  I swear to 'insert higher power here'!  They are all a sick bunch of weirdos.

No doubt some loser will try and talk to you about a business related issue.  Because most people in the office want to work here till their dying day, they can't even leave the business talk at the head door.  True story. My cohort, let's call him Bill, arrived in the bathroom and went into a stall to relieve some tension.  Well, one of his immediate co-workers saw Bill go into the stall, and proceeded to babble on and on to him about some inane project rot and bother.  Mind you, Bill is sitting on the John and this fool is still talking through the stall door.

Hence, I have made up big wooden signs with: "Don't talk to me, I'm trying to shit" printed on them.  People can sign one out when they go.  So next time you're in the bathroom, shut up.

Next week: Impending doom. Stocking up on cartons of cigarettes to stave off anal rape.

Companies won't hire me because I aready make too much.

In my 35 minute interview today, 5 minutes of that actually getting interviewed, I realized that in a former life I must have been the commandant of a Nazi death camp, or at least the gold tooth puller. You all know that I have gobs of money laying around and I use 100 dollar bills to snort beluga caviar up my nose. I was asked how much I made at my current job and I'm sure he threw up into his mouth. I'm sure I had crossed the magic number and would never in a billion years be offered the job. Judging by the sparse office space and complete lack of chairs with what you would call "backs" employees aren't the first priority.

 I arrived home and approached the dreaded mailbox,  I cautiously opened it as usual, fearing some sort of hellish bill.  A gigantic envelope popped out and onto the ground.   It was from friendly neighborhood child support office.  It came with coupon for a vat of Vaseline.  I have a court date to determine if I have willfully have not been paying.  Oh yeah, if the judge deems that to be true, I could go to jail for six months.  Kick ass!

Top 10 license plate frame sayings for manic depressives.

10.  My other car is a hearse.
 9.   If you can read this I hope you're going fast enough to kill me.
 8.   I'd rather be decomposing.  
 7.   Ask me about my decapitated doll collection.
 6.   Ex-wife and cat missing:  Don't look in my basement.
 5.   WARNING: This vehicle is equipped with disabled airbags.
 4.   Happiness is:
 3.   Honk if you have a gun.
 2.   CAUTION: Vehicle stops on all railroad tracks.
 1.   If I'm smiling, the Prozac just kicked in.

Job interview tips for the damned.

It is time once again for another job interview. Hearing those words usually makes me want to break a beer bottle and stick it into my neck. This is a brutal pressure cooker that I liken to a Gestapo interrogation. I have been on so many interviews, I have post traumatic stress syndrome. When the new job actually has the potential to bring some sort of relief from the monotony, I get really excited.

Unfortunately, most employers still use the same stale old questions for everyone they interview. With the help of a certain soulless bank manager, let's call him Craig, I have compiled a list of common questions that make old school bosses cream their pants. I will give the question then the answer I want to give, and then what I should say.

1. What do you know about our company?
BAD: Nothing. I just emailed my resume to someone on Monster.com. Your receptionist is smokin' hot though.
GOOD: (Have a printout from company website from the "about us" link) You have many very interesting projects and clients listed on your website, can you tell me a little more about your client list?
2. What are your strengths and your weaknesses?
BAD: I am very good at video games. I have a weakness for taking a liquid lunch.
GOOD: I have a voracious need to learn and I thrive on challenge. My only weakness is that I try to do too much at one time. But, I am a great multitasker, so I always get my work done.
3. Where do you look to be 3 years from now?
BAD: I want to be an international playboy.
GOOD: I would like to find a nice stable position with the opportunity for growth.
4. What do you do in your current job?
BAD: I stare at a computer screen for eight hours a day. My office building is in the landing path of the Syracuse airport, you see, so I just sit there and hope that a jet loses an engine. Oh! Did I say that out loud? Sorry.
GOOD: I am one of the lucky few in my company that gets to compile all of the data from our various environmental remediation projects and prepare it for our clients.
5. What do you like most about your current job?  What do you like least?
 BAD: My office is five minutes from my apartment.  The pathetic amount of pay that I receive only allows me to afford $100 a month in food and soon I will be forced to sell sexual favors in back alleys.  That and I can't wear shorts to work.
GOOD:  Being involved in the cleanup efforts of many environmental disaster sites, is what makes my job at the end of the day worthwhile.  I was hoping at this stage in my career to be making a salary worthy of my talents.

 Those are just a few of the random dronings that can be launched at you during an interview.  If you learn to bite your tongue and say the right things, you too can be gainfully employed in the paper-pushing middle management position of your dreams.

Come on shoddy American inspecting of jet engine bolts!

Fun with bone saws.

When I am home sitting in my one chair and watching World War II documentaries on The Military Channel, I often wonder what job could be worse than mine? I have come up with an answer. That answer is: Civil War Battlefield Surgeon.

Yup, being knee deep in blood, body parts and beards had to have been worse than copying and pasting all day long. I know what you're thinking: "Eric, sawing off shattered limbs all day sounds exciting." Yes, it does have a certain morose attraction. Let's see what an actual battlefield surgeon has to say about it. Here is a nice quote from eHistory.com: "We operated in old blood-stained and often pus-stained coats, we used undisinfected instruments from undisinfected plush lined cases. If a sponge (if they had sponges) or instrument fell on the floor it was washed and squeezed in a basin of water and used as if it was clean"
Yumaay. What a 'bedside manner' you would have to have. Actually, it would be like being a barber. They would say things like: "If gangrene develops, come back and I can trim a little more off."

So next time you're sitting in your little gray cubicle, take a moment and reflect upon those poorly trained bearded men hacking off some poor bastard's extremities, and tell yourself, "At least I can get to Facebook at work."

Skin and Pizza

When you work in an office with eighty some odd people, there are bound to be things that disturb you on a daily basis. Close talkers, loud talkers, bad breath and body oder come to mind.

This where I do my Rabbi Glickman from Seinfeld impersonation. There is a person in my office, let's call him Marty. Well, Marty seems to have an overwhelming urge to pick at his skin. He will do this in his office. He does it in meetings, and just walking through the hall. You will see him walk by and his hands will be probing and prodding his head face and arms. Now this would be all fine and dandy if not for one little point. What "prizes" he finds automatically go into his mouth.

Yes, bits of skin, scabs, zits, and magic nose goblins all go into that mug. It is great fun. It is also sure to kill the enthusiasm of any chili cook-off. I have a lovely time averting my eyes from him in various office shindigs, as to not hurl my vegetable soup all over the floor. And I need all the nourishment I can get.

As I was thinking about writing this last week, the planets aligned, massive sunflares or some other cosmic bullshit intervened and Marty was let go. I can't help thinking that in some weird way, I was responsible. Now that's just the bees knees. Nothing can put a half smile on my face like the thought of me causing someone else misery.

With all this talk of office functions, to me, one word comes to mind, pizza. Yes, that saturated fat laden greasy blob of cheesy cardboard. Delish. But for the tightwads in corporate america, it is a godsend. Like a British hooker, it's cheap and nasty. For any non-client paid meeting in my office we have, only pizza is provided. I swear, the pizza shop our pies come from must get their cheese from a moulded plastics factory. This doesn't curtail anyone's fervor for mowing this sludge down. Oh no, not the cows in my office. Like a dog going down on a bored housewife's peanut butter- smeared crotch, they go to town. OM NOM NOM.

On the other hand, meetings paid for by a client are spectacular events with salads, and panini sandwiches. This is comparable to first class on a trans-atlantic flight. Those who aren't invited to the fancy meetings, i.e., the poor slobs in steerage, can only stare into the conference room and dream.

Oh well that's the seemingly never-ending misery called life. So raise a slice, pick your nose, and Marty, wherever you are, drive those poor bastards in the next company insane.

Samuel Adams Summer Ale

If you are one of those poor unfortunates who have never tasted a Samuel Adams Summer Ale, I can honestly say that I am luckier than you. One taste of its' citrusy flavor will melt some of your hellacious problems away.  

 Now for some of the Bud drinking drones out there, their sheeple taste buds will be overwhelmed. They will be forced to follow the Summer Ale with the usual.  Do not fault them for there is not enough room in our club.  

 So go out to the nearest store and pick up a pack.  Ding Hao.


Drinking alcoholic beverages will not produce long lasting happiness

Your life will be just as pathetic

Alcohol will increase the risk of waking up next to a hag

"Death Becomes Me" will not be held responsible for any of the above

Divorced and hating it

As a supplement to this weeks blog, I have just received word from my lawyer that I'm now legally divorced.  Before you get all silly on me,  I don't want to hear any "yeehaws", "congrats", or "see, things are getting better",  bullshit.  My lawyer mentioned, but not included his additional fee above and beyond his retainer.  No doubt, this searing rectal agony will throw a monkey wrench into any partying in the immediate future.

I'm sure that the three letters written, and one court appearance, will amount to an insurmountable bill that will require the selling of miscellaneous electronics, sperm, and pirated dvd collection.  Life is good.

Dating tips for the clinically depressed.

Spring is here and love is in the air. OK. I know, I know, you're saying, "Eric, people who want to hurl themselves in front of a bus need some lovin' too?" Yeah, sad but true. Though, there is sort of a problem with this scenario. It's hard to attract the opposite sex, or the same sex if you swing that way, when you HATE the world.

There is hope. You too can follow a few short tips to find the love of your life, or at least one that won't hang up on you when you call them.

Location. Location. Location. The best places for the morbidly depressed to meet are not bars and parties. Instead, one must retool one's thinking. Hospitals, doctor's offices, funerals, are all great places to meet people.

The more horrible the place or event the better. With death, dismemberment, root canals, prostate exams, blood work, and pelvic exams all around you, your sad demeanor can be masked. For instance, you are sitting in your dentist's office waiting to be poked and scraped for your bi-yearly cleaning, and you see and beautiful young Fraulein across the room. You notice that she is nervous and shifting around in her chair. Strike up a conversation. Say things like: "You know dentists have the greatest number of suicides by profession." Or: "I hate when the hygienist tells me my gums are bleeding. Yeah, no shit, you just rammed that pick an inch into my gum line." Trust me, laughs will ensue.

Following this simple plan will ensure at least a couple of dates before the other person finds out what a wretched and horrible mess you really are.

Next week: Disgusting personal habits of co-workers. Plus: How much pizza can you possibly eat?

How to annoy the ex in three easy steps.

Originally, I was going to write about dealing with the IRS this week, but the tears running down my face, arms, and hands will short out my keyboard.  Therefore, this week's topic will be how to annoy your ex in three easy steps.

1) Get a low-paying part-time job.  With such meager restitution your part-time job cannot merit paying a baby sitter.  Guess what?  The ex must watch the kids when you work.  Now don't get too cocky.  You will end up being bludgeoned by the harpy somehow.  But like Superman taking a kryptonite enema, the ex will feel some sort of discomfort.  So raise a half-smile and drop that kid off at the witch's castle.

2) Tell your 11 year old daughter that you agree to buy a her complete Goth wardrobe for the upcoming school year.  Yes! I can die a happy man, well not really.  My offspring has inherited my unique outlook on life.  And by unique, I mean napalming every person on the planet.  My daughter wants to become a vampire and change her name to Raven.  I know what you're saying, "Eric, you can't let a little girl dress like Rob Zombie."  Yes, I can.  Currently, her "look" is hooker makeup and a push-up bra.  So yeah, black nail polish and a dog collar will be an improvement.  Best of all the ex will despise you.  Prepare for hate emails and text messages.

3) Kill them...with kindness.  Give them compliments like, "Wow, that tight shirt really hides the stomach cellulite."  Does the wretched ex have a new significant other?  Make comments along the lines of, "Your new boyfriend sounds really boring."  Or, "Man, if you get pregnant, with both your set of genes, that kid is going to look like Captain Caveman."   Anything to plant that seed of doubt in their evil little brain to make them say, "You know, he's not so bad after all.  In fact, he's a friggin catch."

Remember, you don't want the ex back.  The unrelenting pain and agonizing stress would be too great to overcome.

Honey, call me.  Please!

Next week: Dating tips for the clinically depressed.

RIP Bea Arthur

Best of Bea

Excruciating jobs and other woes. Part deux.

Ah, red the color of unabashed stress and hatred.  You know, monotonous straightening of countless square feet of shelves sounds like big time fun doesn't it?  Yes, that's what I thought too. 

 Until you actually do it for a while,  you will not know the shear terror that scratches and claws it's way up your spine when you hear, off in the distance, let's say aisle E12, a toddler pushing and throwing every stupid toy back into the far reaches of the shelf.  

In the midst of all this anal-retentive ordering of cereal boxes and bags of Pedigree dog food, there are the customers, or "Guests" as The Red calls them.  I have actually had not one problem with any guest. Do you know why?  Because the bar is set too low.  The general public knows that when they venture into a gigantic retail outlet they will be either:  1) Ignored.  or 2) Given bad advise.  So most don't even bother to ask anything.  Even if it means leaving the store without buying shit.  This is just fine with me.  

And if you do get a soul killing retail job somewhere, remember that muttering under your breath can be your only enjoyment during those excruciating 4-6 hours with only a 15 minute break.  For instance, after you cash out a customer, say to them: "Please come again... on my day off."

I know what you are saying,  "Eric, you must be rolling in the fuckin' dough now."  Yep, it has been nice to buy a couple more cans of soup lately.  But fate is a cruel bitch with a gigantic dildo wrapped in sandpaper waiting to bend you over the table the first chance she can.

Next week, how to argue with the IRS and lose.

Excruciating jobs and other woes.

In my never ending quest to make ends "meat" I say meat because things such as chicken, fish, or steak, are truly luxuries, I have taken a part-time job, buh, buh bum...  Now I had long given up the notion of selling body parts, hooking or becoming a pirate as they are illegal and mostly painful.

Getting a part-time would not be such a bad thing if your regular job wasn't a major source of agony in your daily life.  Let me shed some light onto the heinous sucking chest wound that is my job, i.e.. Data Management.

Wikipedia defines Data Management as:  "Data Resource Management is the development and execution of architectures, policies, practices and procedures that properly manage the full data lifecycle needs of an enterprise."

In essence, it's shoveling large piles of shit from one place to another.  Making a very large mountain of shit. 

And on that note, I have to leave for this week.  I must hose off the shovel to get ready for the day.

Next week, how to crush any remaining spirit you have by wearing a red shirt.