Guess Who's Back?

I guess I should find it ironic that after years of joking that my company would “get wise and fire me” they almost did. Sadly, I think it’s one of those things that will only become amusing years later.

Basically what happened is that I got into a dispute with a douche-bag of a co-worker and when I complained to HR, he sent my blog to the company president.

The funniest part of this was that I then had to go into a meeting and defend my job to an HR woman who may actually be functionally retarded.

Alleged HR Retard: Well, we're concerned about how your slanderous writing reflects on the company.
Me: You shouldn’t be. When it’s in print, it’s called “Libel.”
Alleged HR Retard: Well, still…When you get sued…
Me: The only person in my blog who isn’t anonymous is me. I’m crazy, but I don’t think I’m crazy enough to set a president of trying to sue myself for defamation. Also, it’s not actionable if the “libel” actually happened.
Alleged HR Retard: FINE. But the point is that you’re representing the company when you blog.
Me: You mean my anonymous blog represents the company? The one where I never post a last name or mention where I work?
Alleged HR Retard: But your picture is up there.
Me: So your theory is that someone will see a picture of me and somehow know the name of the horrible company that employs me?

We went round and round like this for a while but the end result was this:

1. I was put on probation and forbidden from blogging again under threat of termination.
2. A black mark went on my “permanent record.” I can only assume it appears next to the incident in 3rd grade when I was sent home for swearing.

The bottom line of all this was, “Your time here is up. We want you gone, but don’t want to get sued.”

So what have I been doing since then? Well the person who started this whole shit-storm is very high up. So it’s given me immense pleasure to stick around and rub his nose in the fact that he’s such a lightweight he couldn’t even get me fired.

That’s been the fun part. The sucky part has been trying to find another job, because as much as I bitch about how giant and evil this company is, I’ve generally enjoyed working here.

Monday, I’m off to a new (and better) job. Where, instead of being the bottom step of the company, I’ll be carpet on the bottom step. Ah, sweet progress!

Will I return again? Of course! Check back later today when I dedicate an entire post to the light-weight, incompetent, douche-bag who started all this!

Ehren Writes A Romance Column

Ah, the internet: supplier of porn, haven of child-molesters, and purveyor of useless information. Clearly, the fact that I work for an internet company has done little to improve my opinion of the online world.

Among the more worthless features provided by my company is a “Romantic Tip of the Day” section. Said tip isn’t actually written by anyone in company. In fact, no one seems to know WHO wrote this mind-numbing schlock, because it’s set on a constant, year-long loop that first appeared 6 years ago. That’s right. It’s only a “daily tip” if you’re permanently living in the year 1974.

Some of you might wonder why I said 1974 instead of 2001. All my entries were actually penned in the ‘70s and have been repeated ever since. Hey, like Travolta, I know my career will never die.

Anyway, a sample of this daily load of shit is:

My boyfriend and I have been going out for 2 years now and sometimes it is hard to find a new fun ways to surprise each other. So, I decided that instead of waiting for the next holiday to spoil him, I would create my own holiday--in his honor. I called it Appreciation Day. The entire day was filled with fun surprises to let him know that I truly appreciate his love and friendship! Needless to say, by the end of the day, I think I eventually got my point across!

I hope God strikes their genitals with warts the size of basketball.

At any rate, there was recently a panic because the feature wasn’t updating. And some of my co-workers joked that I should take up the mantle of supplying romance to fat people in Ohio. Hey, that’s what they make duct-tape and blindfolds for. Here’s a taste of what an “Ehren’s Romance Tip” column would look like:

• Take a day to finally fulfill her rape-fantasy! Or better yet, hire a friend, co-worker, or felon and make it a day she’ll never forget!
• Nothing says “I love you” like a swarm of locusts. In his car.
• Above all, women value commitment from the men in their lives. Make a statement by getting closer to her family. Have sex with her sister. Her 6th grade classmates will think she’s “sophisticated.”
• Some men find prostate-stimulation arousing. Surprise your lover tonight with chloroform and a 12 inch black rubber dildo!
• Spice things up in the bedroom tonight with a little adventure and competition: last one to orgasm has to fuck that crazy, knife-wielding hobo that lives under the over-pass.

I really missed my true calling in life. Of course, maybe it’s for the best. People who get romantic tips online should never breed anyway.

The Other Other White Meat

I was thinking today that should my current employers wise-up and fire me, I have the perfect fallback career. In the event of my inevitable termination I’ll pack up my things, move to New Guinea, and start a Human Ranch.

Now, if you’re a member of the local cannibalistic tribes, why settle for the same old fair of lost tourists when you can have Handsome Ehren’s Corn-fed Free Range Human? Nothing toughens up a cut of meat like stress and there are few things in the world more stressful than wandering through Cannibal-infested jungle.

Of course, I imagine that competition would eventually be inevitable once people see the kind of dough I’m raking in. Fortunately, I have an idea to keep me one step ahead of the competition: Human Veal.

Yes, nothing warms the heart like the thought of 10,000 babies being force-fed through little, tiny cages.

Your Girlfriend Has AIDS...Metaphorically

People like to say that there’s a distinction between women and bitches. There is, but it lies only in the probing mind of the beholder. Much in the same way they can give you AIDS without you realizing it was them, those girls you consider to be non-bitches are really just women careful enough to cover their open sores with make-up.

That’s right, I just compared bitchiness to full blown AIDS. Both are non-treatable. The only difference is that I didn’t give bitchiness to your mom. She was a bitch even before the unprotected anal play.

Over the years, I’ve gotten used to the general pettiness of women. Not that men can’t be petty…but women seem to have the innate ability to transform a mild incompatibility into a full-blown Israel - Palestine level of hostilities in a way that is just stupefying to me. For example, Jane cuts in front of Darla in the line at the office cafeteria. So Darla, having no other possible recourse, spreads the rumor around the office Jane is an unreliable drunk. Jane, acting in accordance with female etiquette, has Darla’s children crippled by hiring a deranged hobo to jump them in the parking lot at school with a hubcap. So Darla neuters Jane’s husband with a bolt-cutter and injects radiator fluid into Jane’s spine with a syringe in the elevator.

I know, I know. It’s the oldest story in the book.

The thing is that I have this weird tendency to forget that this viciousness continues to exist, lurking just below that thin layer of mascara, blush, and lace.

I was at a bar last weekend, when two of the girls in my group began discussing a girl at the bar.

“What’s going on now?” I asked in my typical on-the-ball manner. “You hate who because of what?”

“That cow in the pink shirt over there.” One of them hissed. “She’s such a cunt.”

I don’t know a lot about women. I do know, however, that when they use the word “cunt” to describe someone, it’s not because they want to dyke out with them. Believe me: I’ve tried to push the issue.

No, if there were two men involved in an altercation who happened to run into each other in a bar, there would have been one of two courses of action:

1 ) They would head out to the parking lot and beat each other senseless like decent human beings.

Or

2) They would actively ignore each other and nothing would happen.

Neither of these options were acceptable for the females. Instead, they launched themselves over to the offending woman, and struck up a lively conversation. They chatted for about 20 minutes, before inviting her over to join our table.

The evening marched onward with the casual banter and mirth of a knife fight.

“So Martha, I heard your husband was recently laid off. Don’t feel bad, we’re all amazed he lasted this long. He isn’t drinking again, is he?”

“Nancy, I just love that shirt on you. I didn’t know that JC Penny carried plus-plus sizes.”

But in case, if there was really any question about who is more evil men or women, the final point was driven home by the rounds of drinks and cigarettes that the ladies kept forcing on their foe from the bar. Cocktail after cocktail followed countless blazing butts down her throat. One of the girls even got up to buy a new pack of cigarettes.

“And why is that evil?” you ask. To be honest, I didn’t understand it either…until the girl started discussing baby names with the group.

Evil.

My Six Point Plan For Battling Corporate Deceit

My company held what they refer to as an “All-Hands” meeting this week. These get-togethers are invariably about as compelling as watching semen harden. And both leave a similar taste in your mouth. I guess the only difference is that with the blowjob, swallowing is optional.

I really don’t understand the purposes of these forced oral rapes. Every four months we gather in a huge room, while some ass-wipe blathers on about how we just had the greatest quarter in history…regardless of what actually happened. Did our stock drop 25% in the last month? Who cares! Best quarter ever! Are our offices completely infested by man-eating slugs and the hanta virus? BEST QUARTER EVER.

Now, I don’t particularly mind being lied to. I have a girlfriend. I’m used to it. But if you’re going to make me take two hours out of my day, at least make them INTERESTING lies.

• Going forward, we will require all management to defend their jobs through feats of strength. Anyone who can best a manager at the competition will assume his title, salary, and trophy-wife.
• We have received word that the programming and accounting departments have failed to meet quotas. To counter this, they will now be run like a Viking slave-ship: working 20 hours straight, to a drum beat, while a man with a whip flogs those who can’t keep up. Code that image, cur! Carry the one! CARY THE FUCKING ONE!!!
• In an effort to implement a rewards system that actually works, each month the hardest worker will receive “two suckling pigs and a comely lass of virtue true.” Please note the lass is non-exchangeable. The orphanage is getting wise to us.

Unfortunately, our meeting did not include mention of child slavery or prostitution. Instead, there were lots of graphs, bad power-point presentations, and men so painfully not cut out for public speaking I could have sworn I was at a convention for Down Syndrome victims. Never in my life had I prayed so hard for an anthrax attack.

Fortunately, I have devised a six point plan for weaseling out of the next one:

Step 1: Smuggle Alka-Seltzer into meeting.
Step 2: Fake a Seizure (see steps 3-5).
Step 3: Drop tablets in mouth.
Step 4: Thrash around on floor howling. Use this opportunity to yell such choice phrases as “the executive VP of advertising is a salad-tossing cock tampon.”
Step 5: Soil myself.
Step 6: Kick back in a hospital pantsless watching Spanish soap operas. Chicks on Telemundo are ridiculously fucking hot.

Yes, it’s a flawless plan. But the real humor will be after the paramedics drag me from the scene, leaving a trail of shit in the middle of the conference room. There will be a 20 second pause and then some corporate douche bag will resume his prepared remarks on how it was the best quarter ever.

The Fat And The Furious

I’ve heard it said that when being pursued by bears, you don’t need to outrun the beast: you just need to outrun whoever’s with you. This is a lie. In reality, all you need to do is give your companion a healthy dose of pepper spray and then cover him in honey. Which is why I’ve taken to manufacturing my own unique aerosol. It’s fun, easy and in a pinch, doubles as a wicked Honey Mustard sauce. Just one spray and you’re south of the Border!

Which brings me to my point of the day: Fat people suck. Which is why I make them puncture the Pepper Spray cans so I can add honey.

Why do fat people suck? Well, there are many reasons, from depleting our natural resources to their completely outlandish addiction to wearing spandex (seriously, has anyone ever seen a good looking person wearing spandex??? Folks, it’s a privilege, not a right. Just because it ever so tenderly caresses the inside folds of your knee fat doesn’t make it socially acceptable.), but I think the time has come to rise up and overthrow these over-weight oppressors once and for all. Not literally of course…I mean that could cause serious back damage.

What brought on this burst of hatred? Sit back my children and I will tell you the tale.

I was at an “Eat N’ Park” for breakfast not long ago. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it’s roughly as classy as the name suggests. Imagine the inbred, trailer-trash, retarded sister of Denny’s. Now lower your expectations.

At any rate, I was finishing what could only generously be classified as “eggs” when I saw a couple lumber into a table not far away. Conservatively, the two of them weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of 700 pounds. The woman had folds of back fat larger than me. The man hadn’t seen his dick in eight heart attacks.

Now, when you’re so large that planets try to orbit you, it’s difficult to find portions that are large enough to fit your appetite. I mean, when you’re taking 30 pound shits four times a day, you have a lot of keeping up to do. So the couple opted, naturally, for the buffet table. I kept expecting to see each one of them return to their table with a steam tray.

As I watched a man 3 times my weight shovel 15 flapjacks with extra syrup into his gaping mouth, I had one thought: remember the underground monster Jaba tries to feed Luke to in Return of the Jedi? Yeah, that was it.

None-the-less, I was willing to live and let live. Granted, it was easy because I expected both these fat bastards to succumb to diabetes within the next 15 minutes.

Now, having picked at my breakfast of questionable origin, I decided that the only thing safe to consume was the toast. I had a decision: either I could order a $5.00 side and wait 15 minutes while our gap-tooth, chain-smoking waitress ashed on my order, or I could go steal a couple slices from the buffet-table.

“Who the fuck is going to care if I steal some toast?” I thought.

Apparently, the two cave-monsters, that’s who.

The woman suddenly looked up as I approached the sneeze-guarded treasure of deep-fried gristle. When I noticed her sunken eyes sizing me up I had the irrational instinct to freeze.

“DON’T MOVE!” My mind screamed. “HER EYESIGHT IS BASED ON MOVEMENT.”

“YOU CAN’T EAT THAT!!!” the land manatee suddenly barked, spraying fried chicken and gravy into her waffles. “YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED!!! GET AWAY!!! NOW!!!”

Now, she had a valid point. I wasn’t technically supposed to be eating from the buffet. On the other hand, it was toast. And really, what did SHE care if I stole from the restaurant? In the end, I think she just got jittery because she had already earmarked everything at the buffet table as hers.

Seriously, I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly.

Essentially, the experience has served to teach me a valuable lesson: we’ve become far, FAR too accepting of the morbidly obese. At any other point in civilization, these two wouldn’t have been tolerated. They would have been left with two occupations: sideshow freak or professional bear-baiter. People would spit on them, stare in horror, and kick them in the street for the amusement of small children.

So fat people of the world, the gloves are off. Next time I see you coming, I’m letting the air out of your mopeds.

Live, From A Virginia Tech Dorm Room...

I’ve been getting a lot of shit from friends because I stopped posting. I swear: people are impossible to please. When I post, I get nothing but bitching about how I’ve gone soft. When I stop writing, I get slammed. Christ! If I suck so badly, why do you care that I stopped? Make up your minds, people!

I thought it was funny that my girlfriend got shrapnel for my supposed “soft” writing, though. PLEASE. I started sucky posts when this blog began about a year and a half ago. I sure as fuck didn’t notice a drop-off…but if there WAS one, it seems like the most likely culprit was the fact that I’ve written close to 300 posts.

I’m fucking burned out! If you’ve got a really craving for my writing, check some of the archives…God knows there’s plenty of shit to keep you occupied.

I don’t know whether I’m ready to come back quite yet. I need some time to recharge and get new opinions about things again.

No, the truth is I couldn’t post because I had shit to do: weapons to buy, Virginia colleges to visit, murder suicides to…Hmmm, I may have said too much. The point is I was busy. You know how it is.

I was amused when the VA Tech Shooter was recently described as a “sullen loner.” Hmmm…An English major whose “twisted...creative writing...raged against women and rich kids”? Where have I ever seen that guy before? I’m a hyphenated Korean last name from dying in a hail of SWAT team fire.

Seriously, my co-workers told me that they’re submitting this blog to the FBI should I ever be accused of a crime.

Why is it always the sullen loners who snap? Just once, I want it to be a “dashing playboy,” “precocious ne’er-do-well,” or “Ex-Buffalo Bills running back.” Oh wait…I think I did see that last one somewhere in the news. Or at least in Dana Carvey stand-up specials.

My point is that these kill-hungry anti-socialites are giving the rest of us a bad name. After all, some of us might just be rapists.

My Career As A Desert Mystic

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Number 6 With A Large Fries

It seems like all the things that I’ve really needed to know were never taught to me in school. Like how to fracture someone’s arm in three places, or exactly how much antifreeze one can consume before massive kidney failure and blindness sets in. I’m just saying, that’s the kind of thing that would have been good to kn0wsdsdba. Stupid Braille keyboard…

My company is having a “Friday at 4”…today. This is the kind of thing that could have given me an aneurism in the past trying to figure out. The “Friday at 4” event (inexplicably scheduled for a Thursday), offers open bar (with the exception of well drinks, fucking cheapskates) to all company employees for two hours. This is precisely the kind of event that I have had no training for.

The last such shindig had a few highlights. For starters, I work for a computer company. The majority of my coworkers are guys who thought that a fun Saturday night is playing Second-life until 4 am. To say that they are not experienced drinkers is like saying that Anna Nicole Smith was not a Rhodes Scholar.

What this amounted to was me ordering my third free drink before everyone had even arrived. Hey, I’m a corporate bitch working for a company that doesn’t believe in Christmas bonuses. One way or another, I was getting that fucking bonus even if I had to destroy my liver in the process. So I was about 6 beers deep by 4:30 or so, which was just the right amount of alcohol for me to decide that it was greatest idea ever to harass the C.E.O. into downing car bombs.

The exchange went something like this:

Me: You there! You inexplicably continue to employ me. Let me buy you a Car bomb.

C.E.O.: Is there anyway for me to get out of this without you thinking I’m a complete pansy?

Me: Of course. I wouldn’t think you were a complete pansy. Cough! Cough! Nancy! Cough!

Honestly, I think the only reason I still have a job is that everyone else in office has the alcohol tolerance of 90 year-old lupus victims. I’m just assuming that after the car-bomb, everyone else just blacked out. Which is why I find myself debating: Go to open bar, or not?

On one hand, there will be free booze. However, the odds of being terminated for calling the head of HR “a boy-loving, cock-sorcerer” skyrocket.

On the other, I could let the man win by not bankrupting the company on my bar-tab and live to collect another paycheck.

Sigh…I guess there’s always that counter-job at Wendy’s.

Wii-tarded

I fucking hate the Wii. What a useless waste of technology that could have been spent on new ways to download porn. Then again, this load of shit originated in Japan, meaning that this time would have been otherwise sunk into filming women getting fucked by eels in airtight containers of urine while getting beaten with sacks of broken glass. Fine, fine. Pretend I’m the only one who ever saw that movie. But we all know that the Japanese are incapable of producing any sort of “normal” pornography.

But back to the Wii. For those of you who haven’t seen it, the controllers need to be wildly swung about, rather than simply pushing buttons. I guess the idea was that some loser at Nintendo decided to create a video game system for people too lazy for Dance Revolution. Or simply to torture palsy victims.

I’m not a huge videogame guy, I must confess. I’ve got a Playstation that I bust out for stress release from time to time. Hey, if it weren’t for Grant Theft Auto, I would have gone on a killing rampage years ago. Don’t breathe easy just yet, though. I get the feeling that this is sort of like trying to prevent a period with a Q-tip: eventually, I’m going to see red and ruin someone’s underwear. A killing spree is always a distinct possibility.

Speaking of periods, my mom always used to tell me life was like a box of tampons: it’s just one bloody thing after another.

I guess I just don’t understand the appeal of this new system. When I play videogames, it’s because I want to relax, not because I want to jump about my house furiously, fighting imaginary enemies. I mean, between that and Bluetooth headsets, how will we ever really know if someone is having a psychotic-episode? Look, I’m all for exercise, but this is just insanity. If you’re going to spend two hours a day swinging an imaginary bat, why not go down to the batting cages instead? This is the same issue I had with Guitar Hero. I’ve seen kids at stores who are INSANE at that game. Why not take that time and actually learn how to play? Maybe gain an actual skill instead of something completely useless?

I don’t even have a problem with people who want to be completely useless. But if I want to unwind, the last thing I want to do is stand in front of a TV twitching like Michael J. Fox. Instead, I’ll stretch out in a chair like Christopher Reeves.

Now, ordinarily, all of this would be pushed down in a tight little ball until I snapped and beat someone with a wrench. But unfortunately, the Wii has been thrust into my life in the least likely place: my job. Inexplicably, my company decided that having a game system in the lounge would be a good idea. It used to be that I could stretch out on the couch and watch Law & Order reruns during my lunch. Those days are gone. Now everyone piles into the lounge to watch the same three guys play virtual tennis. It’s like college all over-again…except I’m not drunk

…usually.

Fucking Wii. If this continues, I’m going to install a beer tap at my desk at work.