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5:39 p.m. - 2002-12-10

I GUESS IT BEATS WORKING AS A WHORE IN THE COAL MINE

You know… my job is an okay job.

For the most part, I write. But for everything I write, I must first make contact with the heads of companies to determine how they’d like me to write their stories and in what direction they’d like to go in.

Yesterday, I dealt with two people at the opposite ends of the spectrum.

The first was a woman…the wife of a guy who runs his own apparently successful business.

I had a feeling this woman was going to be one of those customers I like to call “A Big Fucking Bitchwad” after the first time we spoke. She slapped on that attitude over the phone like her husband’s business was more important than all the other dozens of businesses that I’m having to write about and that her husband's business deserves special treatment.

Last week, she told me that she “must” have something in her hands that I had written by the end of the week. Nevermind that this book doesn’t go to press until May of next year…she wanted something by the end of last week.

Fine. I wrote a 1,600 word profile about her hubby’s crap-ass business and sent it off to her.

Yesterday morning, I get a call from her.

It just doesn’t “flow” properly, she says.

I explained that I was off last Friday because my baby boy was having surgery and that I was in a rush to get her “something”. And that what she was holding in her precious little Trophy Wife hands was what we call a “rough draft”. It can and will be fine tuned.

I didn’t use the “precious little trophy wife” words. That was in my head. Luckily, I was blessed with a gene that allows me to think shit but not actually say it. Go me and all that shit.

She then says the words that I despise hearing. The same words that everyone that has ever had to deal with another person ever ever ever hates to hear.

“We are spending a great deal of money on this,” she says.

Well what a fucked-up idiot you happen to be, lady. Shit…we’re giving everyone else their profiles for free, you Amazonian dipshit, you’re the only colossal duckfucker we’ve been able to agree to actually pay us for this shit.

I thought this. Didn’t actually say it. Truth be told, every company that spends money with us spends a vast amount of cash. We do quality work here. Except when I’m forced to produce something…anything…by their allotted timeframe.

I’m an artist, dammit!! I do not craft on demand!! I am the Soup Nazi of Coffee Table Book Business Profile Writers!! Do NOT push me, conchita!!

…Plus…you know…I had writer’s block all week. What’s a guy gonna do?

She then starts telling me how to write the profile. That I should start with a hook that gets people interested in her husband’s business and makes them want to read the profile all the way through to the end.

So I did that.

Wanna see it?

Here it goes…

“George Smith pimps his wife Karen out of the back room of their business, George’s Auto Parts. Karen isn’t bad looking for a spent piece of used jet trash. If you read this thing all the way to the end, you can find out how you can take a shot at boning Karen up the ass hidden somewhere in the text.”

Works for me.


The other guy… Ed…this guy cracks me up.

He’s called me several times in the last month and always acts like we’re old buddies.

“Bobbo,” he says yesterday. “I’ve got this photographer here that wants to take pictures of my business.”

“Ed,” I said. “Let him take pictures of your business.”

“I need some input Bobbo,” he says. “What should I let him take pictures of?”

I thought for a second.

“How about a picture of your building,” I suggest.

“That sounds good,” Ed says while eating something crunchy. “Anything else?”

“Have him take some pictures of some people around the office looking like they’re working,” I said.

“Sheee-it,” he says … and I quote….”These dumbasses don’t even look like they’re working when I’m around and I OWN the place.”

“Ed,” I laugh. “If the guy’s a professional photographer, put your trust in him to take some great pictures.”

“A’ight,” he says, finishing his apple or carrot stick or whatever. “I’m just gonna tell him to go shoot his ass off around the place. Later.”

Now THAT’S my kinda guy.


I’m a little irritated with the clean-up guy at our office.

This isn’t rocket science, but I would sincerely like for him to put my wastebasket next to my desk.

He always leaves it by my bookcase near my door.

Every freakin’ day I have to pick up the wastebasket and mooooove it to the side of my desk, so I can fill it up with empty Diet Vanilla Coke cans.

Every afternoon at 5, I leave the wastebasket right where I want it.

Every morning the sonofabitch is right back by my door.

I’ve had it with this grade school dropout.

I smell a fist fight a’comin’.

Janitor Joe had better be on his toes the next time I cross his 70 year-old ass.


This past Saturday, Susie and I made an agreement that this playhouse that we’re buying Andrew for Christmas will be the only thing we’re buying him since he already has several other gifts.

And naturally, I broke that agreement.

I bought Andrew a Dora the Explorer Cuddle Pillow.

I am fully aware that Dora is a show geared toward little girls. This fact is not lost on me. I’m not just aimlessly stumbling around the kid's section of my local toy store, ignorantly buying gift after gift for my child without recognizing what gender the gift is typically produced for.

But my boy’s infatuated with Dora. She comes on TV and you’d think someone’s hammering his shins inside out, he squeals so loudly.

Plus, he's seen this pillow on two different occasions in two different stores and carried it all around the store with him, holding her snugly and grinning the entire time.

I get the feeling that he will grow up, fall in love with a Latino girl who looks suspiciously like Dora, marry, have little half-breed children and name them Pancho, Pedro, Conchita and Lucky, named thusly because Lucky was a breached baby, born with a third leg jutting out his left hip which he'll use in three legged races at their church in Tijuana and all the other parents will clap Andrew and his Latino wife on the back and say "That Lucky. He is one fast runner with that third leg" except with heavy Mexican accents. And Andrew will beam proudly, knowing that his son may be a freak of nature ... but he brings pride and joy to their little family inside the grass hut that they live in except when Lucky keeps accidently kicking holes in with his third leg.

Anyway ... so yeah ... I told Susie last night that I had broken our agreement not 48 hours after making it and bought Andrew a Dora the Explorer Pillow Buddy, complete with Backpack and Map, which every little female explorer must have because you know women ... the bitches get lost when you ask them politely to go to hell. Better equip 'em all with a map, know what I'm sayin'?

Am I right? AM I RIGHT?!?

Damned skippy I'm right.

So anyway, Susie gives me the third degree over this ... "I thought we were only buying him the Playhouse, you're spoiling the child, you suck as a Dad, I should have married my boyfriend Herbie in High School, you suck, you suck, you suck."

I presented my case.

"Okay...imagine this," I said. "It's Christmas morning and Andrew gets up, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He opens his eyes and he can't believe what he sees near the tree...the SAME F'N PLAYHOUSE that he fell in love with at Toys 'R' Us!!! How can this be?!? He grins wildly, tears of joy streaming down his baby-soft cheeks. He scampers over to the playhouse, throws open the door ... and there's his one true love...his Dora the Explorer Cuddly Pillow Friend...waiting...nay...beckoning him inside to explore an imaginary world with her."

"I'm not seeing it," she says.

"Eh," I retort. "At least he'll have something new to dry hump."


No big Pervy stories from last night ... my apologies.

One thing that was kinda funny. He showed up and was his usual self.

By the time his Dad came to pick him up, he was all "sick" with a "headache".

His dad felt his head and proclaimed him fine. The guy drives a truck for the US Postal Service. How in the hell he gained the professional medical experience that enables him to determine a kid's current medical status by slapping the kid on the forehead is beyond me.

They leave and Susie says "I bet Pervy had a test tomorrow and didn't want to go to school."

"I bet he was getting his ass kicked for being a nerdy little freakish androgynous pervert tomorrow and that's why he was faking it," I absentmindedly chirped.

She just stared at me.

Every now and then I have to remind myself that this kid is related to her by blood and not marriage.


Ohmigod...one more thing...

Some of you may have been to this restaurant in the past and have experience from it.

But my evil former boss Wendigo dropped me a line yesterday to tell me that she and her hubby Dr. Eric went to this restaurant in Atlanta this weekend...it's called Fogo de Chao.

Basically, you get a little disc on your table...one side's green, the other side's red. You flip it over so the green is showing, and waiters bombard your table with 15 different varities of meat...steak, chicken, pork, ribs, filet mignon, leg of lamb...etc. When you've had enough, you flip it back to red and they stop.

You sit and eat as much as you possibly can. You get breaks in between flippings of the disc. Plus there's a giant salad bar and side items.

People.

This is my idea of Heaven. All the meat you can eat at the flipping of a disc.

I must go to Fogo de Chao.

It is my quest.

It is my life.

It is me.

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