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

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.