A heartwarming variety of screeds.
Breakfast Today for breakfast I a 50 gallon drum of fresh squeezed orange juice: an entire stand of orange shrubs or trees or whatever were pulped and put into an EXTRUDER for me by a squinty-eyed marble mouthed teen. Rather being called “Extra-Fucking Huge”, the size was called something like “Power” or “Turgid” or “Extremely Masculine”. In Tokyo something like this would have $75, but here in this great land of large juices, it was merely $15.
I had mixed feelings about the scowling teen. I like that he hates his job and is kind of surly about. I just wish he had waited until the next costumer to engage in class warfare.
The Bastards at Work Some art directors at work came over to my cube, bearing a digital camera. Never a good sign.
“Greg, need you to model for a layout.”
I hate being photographed, as I am of a gruesome countenance, but apparently that’s what they were looking for.
“You’re perfect! We need someone who looks like an IT guy.”
Yeah and fuck you, too.
New York City I’ll be in NYC for a week and a half, starting. I love NYC for many reason, one of which it is not LA. Not that I don’t like LA. I love LA. But NYC suits me more.
If you haven’t been, you should go. You’re first couple of hours you float about 3 inches above the ground. Not from glee or because you’ve met the girl that has all that something special you’ve been filling pages of your diary about. Nope, you’ll float because the place is fucking insane. Everyone walks like they’re on their way to nailing some douchebag to the wall.
Of course, if you live there, it probably turns into the generic everyday hell we all live in, but for me it’ll be a newer, fresher, hell.
What annoys me is there are tons of people that I’d love visit to with, people with wee children I’ve yet to meet, people that are enjoyable to drink with, people who fit inside their skins in a pleasing way. But, no, I’ll be working like a shmoe. Maybe if I’m lucky I can go see Cats!
More dumb, asshole shithead evil at work.
The people who approached me about taking the photo are not dumb, asshole shitheads, and they are certainly not evil. What is evil, O Best Beloved, are fucking monolithic bureaucracies that prevent you from doing your GODDAMN JOB.
Yesterday, I was a cheery little tugboat, with a merry toot-toot and a shiny fresh coat of cherry red paint, dreaming my dreamy little dreams and getting my work done, all cheerily and adorably, out among the other cheery red tugboats. Toot-toot, I say!
Toot-fucking-toot, indeed. You see, that’s when the Universe picked my ticket, and suddenly I was transformed for a mere tugboat, to AN OLD TESTAMENT TUGBOAT, the kind that gets picked on by an angry and fickle TUGBOAT GOD.
The menu of my vexations is thus:
a) My largish company is owned by an even largerish company, a shadowy empire headquartered out beyond the Van Allen Belt. If one requires, say, a square of toilet tissue, one must launch a small messenger drone across the eternal cosmic night to the Jovian orbital requisitions and sundries platform. I am only slightly exaggerating. Well, I needed a laptop for this trip, so a month back, I thought “Fuckin’ a, I’ll send in my request to our shadowy overlords NOW and they will have plenty of time to do things correctly. Guess what? WRONG AGAIN, SHITHEAD. They fucked everything, providing a laptop to some other, no doubt bewildered Greg Mills in some other vassal company.
b) I’ve been waiting on a mortgage payment worth of expenses for two months. Endless unanswered emails to the finance people went unanswered, yet the same people sent a stream of hectoring emails my way about my time sheets. Strange. So I finally approached a sympathetic ear in upper management, and magically, my expenses are approved. It’s a happy ending, true, but in made me shudder at the arbitrariness of the universe. Okay, I admit I stare into the abyss, like, a lot, but I had thought I had reached the daily limits of my horror earlier in the day when I saw a pigeon with one foot eating garbage.
c) The thread of the day finally slipped into a singularity when trying to book my travel for this little trip. To control costs, the client wants us to use their travel service, but OUR travel service can get us better rates in NYC. After a fucking tesseract of phone calls, I managed to find airline tickets, a hotel room, and I think a she-goat. I know someone’s travel policy has been violated. If it was yours, I apologize.
The Tonsils The boy had them out. And his adenoids. And to date, the streptococci has been banished from out home. You see, we, La Famiglia, have been collectively been infected with Strep of various orifices something like 12 times in the past month. Seems the lad had preternaturally massive tonsils. They were big. All you had to do was look to the back of his throat, and there were what looked like two AA-size batteries wrapped in bubble gum.
That’s just not right. It’s freakish, really. And those bastard Steptococci LOVED ‘em.
So we had them sliced out like so much gristle, and subsequently we are pinkish in glow and robust in our general constitution. Owen’s speech is also easier to understand. It’s much less gloopy.
Wife is a lot calmer now, because in the past Owen has had fever-induced seizures, which, while not dangerous, are not fun.
I think the plan now is to glide into Christmas.
So how are you?
I had mixed feelings about the scowling teen. I like that he hates his job and is kind of surly about. I just wish he had waited until the next costumer to engage in class warfare.
The Bastards at Work Some art directors at work came over to my cube, bearing a digital camera. Never a good sign.
“Greg, need you to model for a layout.”
I hate being photographed, as I am of a gruesome countenance, but apparently that’s what they were looking for.
“You’re perfect! We need someone who looks like an IT guy.”
Yeah and fuck you, too.
New York City I’ll be in NYC for a week and a half, starting. I love NYC for many reason, one of which it is not LA. Not that I don’t like LA. I love LA. But NYC suits me more.
If you haven’t been, you should go. You’re first couple of hours you float about 3 inches above the ground. Not from glee or because you’ve met the girl that has all that something special you’ve been filling pages of your diary about. Nope, you’ll float because the place is fucking insane. Everyone walks like they’re on their way to nailing some douchebag to the wall.
Of course, if you live there, it probably turns into the generic everyday hell we all live in, but for me it’ll be a newer, fresher, hell.
What annoys me is there are tons of people that I’d love visit to with, people with wee children I’ve yet to meet, people that are enjoyable to drink with, people who fit inside their skins in a pleasing way. But, no, I’ll be working like a shmoe. Maybe if I’m lucky I can go see Cats!
More dumb, asshole shithead evil at work.
The people who approached me about taking the photo are not dumb, asshole shitheads, and they are certainly not evil. What is evil, O Best Beloved, are fucking monolithic bureaucracies that prevent you from doing your GODDAMN JOB.
Yesterday, I was a cheery little tugboat, with a merry toot-toot and a shiny fresh coat of cherry red paint, dreaming my dreamy little dreams and getting my work done, all cheerily and adorably, out among the other cheery red tugboats. Toot-toot, I say!
Toot-fucking-toot, indeed. You see, that’s when the Universe picked my ticket, and suddenly I was transformed for a mere tugboat, to AN OLD TESTAMENT TUGBOAT, the kind that gets picked on by an angry and fickle TUGBOAT GOD.
The menu of my vexations is thus:
a) My largish company is owned by an even largerish company, a shadowy empire headquartered out beyond the Van Allen Belt. If one requires, say, a square of toilet tissue, one must launch a small messenger drone across the eternal cosmic night to the Jovian orbital requisitions and sundries platform. I am only slightly exaggerating. Well, I needed a laptop for this trip, so a month back, I thought “Fuckin’ a, I’ll send in my request to our shadowy overlords NOW and they will have plenty of time to do things correctly. Guess what? WRONG AGAIN, SHITHEAD. They fucked everything, providing a laptop to some other, no doubt bewildered Greg Mills in some other vassal company.
b) I’ve been waiting on a mortgage payment worth of expenses for two months. Endless unanswered emails to the finance people went unanswered, yet the same people sent a stream of hectoring emails my way about my time sheets. Strange. So I finally approached a sympathetic ear in upper management, and magically, my expenses are approved. It’s a happy ending, true, but in made me shudder at the arbitrariness of the universe. Okay, I admit I stare into the abyss, like, a lot, but I had thought I had reached the daily limits of my horror earlier in the day when I saw a pigeon with one foot eating garbage.
c) The thread of the day finally slipped into a singularity when trying to book my travel for this little trip. To control costs, the client wants us to use their travel service, but OUR travel service can get us better rates in NYC. After a fucking tesseract of phone calls, I managed to find airline tickets, a hotel room, and I think a she-goat. I know someone’s travel policy has been violated. If it was yours, I apologize.
The Tonsils The boy had them out. And his adenoids. And to date, the streptococci has been banished from out home. You see, we, La Famiglia, have been collectively been infected with Strep of various orifices something like 12 times in the past month. Seems the lad had preternaturally massive tonsils. They were big. All you had to do was look to the back of his throat, and there were what looked like two AA-size batteries wrapped in bubble gum.
That’s just not right. It’s freakish, really. And those bastard Steptococci LOVED ‘em.
So we had them sliced out like so much gristle, and subsequently we are pinkish in glow and robust in our general constitution. Owen’s speech is also easier to understand. It’s much less gloopy.
Wife is a lot calmer now, because in the past Owen has had fever-induced seizures, which, while not dangerous, are not fun.
I think the plan now is to glide into Christmas.
So how are you?
Labels: Greg's Life As Nincompoop, My Idiotic Job, Weltschmerz
posted by Greg Mills at 11:32 AM
4 Comments:
wow-having worked at a similar monolithic entity (GREY NY) i feel your pain about the ridiculous inner workings of these companies. I always enjoyed operating somewhat under the radar there, which actually got me more hooked up in terms of expenses and computer needs. By embracing the lower echelons of those that actually have to do the things you need, I ultimately got what I needed by asking them first, and then retroactively filling out all needed paperwork that their bosses required.
Ah, your NY visit, I should have figured you'd be quaratined to the playback monitor the entire time you were here. All commercial shoots nowadays have less time for being human short of barely allowing one to get 6 hourse sleep before the next days shooting commences.
Tonsils. What is it with Gregs and their tonsils?(or their son's) I also was ¿blessed? with c-battery size tonsils from birth and for years have startled doctors to no end when they open my throat to see whats going on in there - only to think that the little alien baby is about to spew out of those massive nodes at any given moment.
Ah advertising, beats a real job though don't it?
Advertising is not a profession for adults. It's a daycare center for people with ironic hairdos.
Fucking tonsils. Fucking tonsils have a fucking House of Usher curse on me and mine. It sucked shit, drove my poor wife nuts, and I was becoming nuts because of her becoming nuts.
And to your point "...barely allowing one to get 6 hourse sleep..." that is EXACTLY right, but the whole kerfuffle with the hotels was caused by my ECD wanting to stay a fancy pants place where we will spend probably twenty minutes awake in, a day.
I think I'll become...something else.
So...how's one supposed to get ahead in advertising?
I'll tell you stories from the world of retail someday, like the elderly man who urinated all over the fitting bench while I was fitting him with a pair of shoes. When I'm his age, I too want to be able to urinate in public without concern of consequence. Not out of revenge or spite, but because I know that no one will say anything about it.
G.
i have worked retail and I have had opportunity to spend time next to professional browsers, ie perverts in the sex manual section of the book store. The y weren't even good sex manuals.
No one urinated on me. Wait, someone did urinate on me. I had to dress in an unholy Curious George getup and some kid let go. But being urinated on by old men are infinitely creepier that little kids.
My best shameless and/or insane old man story was a nightmare back in my early twenties. I was at a Lyon's, which is like a Denny's.
An old codger eating soup. He then vomits into his soup. Then continues to eat the soup.
And I said "I'll have whatever he's having."
No, I didn't say that. But the episode still make me laugh, and I laugh only so I don't scream.
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