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A Kafkaesque Journey Through A Bureaucratic Labyrinth To Request Two Days Off From Work

As a novelist in today’s bizarre publishing world, I have to work a day job. Also as a novelist, people are attracted to me. One person. So we’re getting married. It’s going to be really, really awesome.

abstract architecture art berlin

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

So I decided to take the Friday before and the Monday after the wedding off work. Not difficult stuff.

Corporate America would argue otherwise.

So began a journey that led me on a journey to find a fabled sheet of paper that would allow me to use 16 hours of paid vacation. Luckily, I’m an hourly worker, so all this back and forth really didn’t bother me.

Me, to my Immediate Superior: “Hey yo, I need to request time off.”

Immediate Superior: “Then fill out a time off request form.”

Me: “Where might I get one, brah?”

I.S.: “In the office. But not the main office. The office before the main office.”

Down to the office before the main office I go. “Ay yo, I need a time off request form.”

Person whose authority is above me, but not sure if that authority is above my Immediate Superior’s or not: “I don’t have those here. You’re going to have to go to the main office.”

Me: “Aight.”

Over to the first office in the main office: “I’m trying to get this time off request.”

Bureaucrat 1: “Try the office next to this office.”

Me: “Aight.” Two steps over to the next office. “Time off request form, please.”

Bureaucrat 2: “Behind you, in the fourth cabinet from your left.”

Me: “Ok.” I locate the fourth cabinet from my left and open it. Paper clips, printer paper.

Bureaucrat 2: “The other half of the cabinet.”

I open the other half of the fourth cabinet from my left, and there are two time off request forms, one green, one blue. “Blue or green,” I call over my shoulder.

Bureaucrat 2: “Either one.”

I go blue, and bring it back to my Immediate Superior.

I.S.: “This is a make up time request, for if you call in sick. You need the green sheet.”

Back to the second office in the main office to grab a green sheet. “Green is for vacation hours, correct?”

Bureaucrat 2: “Yes.”

Me: “Do I just fill it out and give it to you, then?”

Bureaucrat 2: “Yes, fill it out. No, do not give it to me. Put it on your Immediate Superior’s desk, and then he will bring it to me for approval.”

Me: “I can just hand it to you right now. I’m in here. You’re in here.”

Bureaucrat 2: “Your Immediate Superior must grant pre-approval, I will process the approval, and then Bureaucrat 1 in the office to my left will inspect my approval, and, ultimately, decide if the request can be sent up the chain to corporate, where they will look over your accrued paid vacation hours and maybe grant you the time off.”

Me: “I’m getting married. If this doesn’t get approved and I get scheduled to work, I’m calling in sick.”

Bureaucrat 2: “Make up time requests for a call-in are the blue sheets.”

 

 

Ouroboros Cat

Here’s the ouroboros:

ouroboros

And here it is in cat form:

A Look Inside Today’s Conservative Home

Establishing shot: A really goddamn nice house, not unlike the one in Last Man Standing.

Interior shot: A teenage girl enters. Here we go. A pure, uncut look at the conservative values of 2018 America.

Teenage girl (TG): “Daddy, I need to talk to you.”

Conservative White Father (CWF from here on out): “The stock market is booming. Make it quick.”

TG: “Um, a boy from school….he tried to assault me last night. Sexually.”

CWF: “Prove it.”

TG: “I…..can’t.”

CWF: “Here’s some advice, daughter. Let’s say you were sexually assaulted—which you most certainly were not, from what I’m gathering here—at least have the decency to call me immediately after, or better yet, during. The Chinese invented Barack Obama.”

TG: “But I’m telling you, it really happened.”

CWF: “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. How insensitive of me. I’ve been totally out of line. The boy is…..brown, isn’t he? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? (the father pulls an assault rifle out of his shirt) I’m going to kill this son of a bitch.”

TG: “No, he is white.”

CWF: “And you’re trying to drag his name through the mud? For rape? Or in this case, attempted rape? Do you realize how many of Elton John’s records Republicans have broken since 2016?”

TG: “I…..what?”

CWF: “As a thought experiment, let’s say it did happen. Were you being a tease?”

TG. “No.”

CWF: “You were probably dressed kind of slutty, though.”

TG: “No, not at all.”

CWF: “Well those are the only two options. But you know what? Now that I’m looking at you, I’ll be darned if wouldn’t date you. You know, if you weren’t my daughter.”

TG: “Gross, dad.”

CWF: “No, it’s not gross at all. Us conservative white men see nothing wrong or strange about stating how attractive and dateable our daughters are. This is normal behavior. Now if I was talking about screwing my son, that would be weird.”

TG: “Dad, that’s my brother.”

CWF: “Well, you should probably go up to your room and have your period.”

TG: “Aren’t you going to do anything about the boy who tried to rape me?”

CWF: “Well, as you said earlier, you don’t have proof. Tell you what, I’m going to humor you. Let me have a look at his Facebook page.”

TG: (Brings up the dude’s Facebook page) “Here.”

CWF: “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Last night, you say? (scrolling) Well, I have some bad news for you, daughter. He’s innocent. You see this? He posted ‘Getting white-boy wasted with Ball-sac and Jimbo.’ Nowhere in that statement does he say that he is raping anyone. We will soon have an army in space.”

Conservative White Mother (CWM) enters: “I have finished cleaning.”

CWF: “The daughter thinks she was sexually assaulted. Rich white men should not pay taxes.”

CWM: “Was she dressed inappropriately and being a tease?”

CWF: “It says no. I think this whole thing is just her way of telling us that she enjoys the recent historic tax cuts and burning Nike shoes.”

CWM: “Probably. We do have an extra two dollars and fifty cents per week.”

Conservative White Father grabs his wife by the pussy. “Is dinner ready?”

CWM: “I am just going to let you grab my pussy. It will be a little while before dinner is ready. Why don’t you lecture me about birth control while we wait?”

CWF: “I want dinner now.

CWM: “I just put the chicken in the oven. It’s unsafe to eat. ”

CWF: “NOT FOR MEEEEE!!!!!!” He rips off his human mask, revealing a scaly, reptilian head. He walks into the kitchen and takes the raw chicken out of the oven. “DINNER IS SERVED!!!!!!!! I SHALL WASH IT DOWN WITH A TALL, COOL GLASS OF LIBTARD TEARS!!!!! RAAAAAAAAWR!!!!!” The rest of Conservative White Father’s lizard body rips out of his human costume as he takes large bites of raw chicken.

Conservative White Mother picks up the pile of human moltings. “These were due for a wash anyways.” She turns to the camera. “Help me. Please.

TG: “Is anybody going to do anything about my situation? No? Alright then.”

The screen transitions to a pile of flaming Colin Kaepernick jerseys surrounded by Russian nesting dolls. Fade to black.

 

 

 

alternate facts, wings, timelines, and private grabbing

i go away a lot, but i always come back.

november ninth, twenty sixteen: i woke up and thought to myself ‘something’s…..different.’ i soon found that biff tannen had ripped his way through the fourth wall of cinematic fiction and into this supposed reality, regained possession of the futuristic sports almanac, and wrested control of the white house (bob gale, a writer for back to the future II, has acknowledged that the rich, powerful tannen is based on someone who recently became king of America—google that), giving rise to a wave of ‘alts’—facts, wings of the right, and of hunter-s-thompson-for-sheriff-poster_200_200course timelines. within these alternative timelines, expect quite a few of them to legalize pussy grabbing (some in more lawyerly language, some not so much), and in those where a female version of tannen assumes power, an equally degrading form of something called dong conking.

none of that really matters, though. the only thing i ever worry about is me, of course, which is why i have emerged from a months-long hiatus to make it known that i am not fake news. that’s all. i’m expecting many of these alternate timelines to produce executive orders shutting down any and all outlets that do not acknowledge the supreme insight and godliness of our new *rutaceaecean* figurehead of american greatness. so, as of this writing, the official stance of the philosophunculist blog is that america has been made great.

and speaking of biff tannen, was it really so bad that he got to be rich, if only in one timeline? in all three movies, dude gets smothered in poopy, which is what we have to assume is happening to this current commander in chief in every other timeline. just let the guy have one feces-free life, alright?

back to me. this blog is very real. it’s not even news, therefore it can’t be fake news. when the witch hunt for publications of ill repute commences, please don’t censor me. i’ll do anything. grab my pussy (in a timeline where i am a woman). conk my dong (in the timeline where the king is a woman. or even a man. i don’t care. if the masculine king of america wants to conk my dong, i’ll take it. years after this, when i’m homeless because all workers have been replaced by robots and the children and friends of the king, i can tell passersby that the king of america once conked my dong, and they will reward me with a russian ruble.) just let me keep this blog. it’s really all i’ve got, until america achieves an even greater level of greatness and me and everyone i know gets rich from working at our jobs (before the robots take over) because america will be that great

 

*i sort of made that up, but it has a base in rutaceae, which is the citrus family, and i know that doesn’t help my ‘not fake’ spiel, but due to its base on a real word, it can’t be classified as fake*

 

 

I Like To Keep My Personal Opinions And Beliefs Off Of The Internet

*caution: the following post mentions bodily functions. why? i don’t know. perhaps they are being used symbolically as a way to say that we all need to find some sort of common denominator in these divided times. or they’re a metaphor shining light on the crumbling infrastructure of…..something. but maybe, just maybe, if you highlight every fourth letter of this post, it will reveal a hidden message.

We all have annoying Facebook friends that shellac us with political posts, gym selfies, and pics of their butt-ugly babies—nothing new to talk about there.

Personally, I like to stay away from ‘putting myself out there’ on the internet. I have boundaries. I don’t need people to know everything about me.

When it comes to social media, my movements are few and far between. Every now and then, I guess, I’ll crowdsource a question that seems important to me. Like lately, for instance, I’ve had this thing going on with my bowels. Without getting too deep into the problem, here’s the gist: I will go about three days without defecating, and then BOOYA—like a warm and cold front colliding, a frenzied twelve hour period ensues in which a torrential downpour produces up to twenty four inches of excrement (to put that in scale: one inch of excrement is equivalent to 36 inches of snow, and 72 inches of rain). If someone knows what would cause this, by all means, pipe up. Yes, you there. What’s that? Who am I going to vote for in the upcoming election? Your mom. Did you not just hear, a moment ago, that I prefer not to share those things on the internet?

Anyways, after this purge, my intestines will lay dormant for another 72 hours. Sure, they’ll bubble, they’ll gurgle, and sometimes even squeak, but there will be absolutely no productive action. Nada. Pardon? Where do I stand on people using the pubic bathroom that they identify with? I’m not going to comment on that, but if I happen to be in one of my violent defecation cycles and a women’s restroom is the only one available, let’s just say I’m going to start feeling very womanish for a brief period of time. I’m not going to sit over here and apologize if some little girl has to listen to that.

This brings us to the color of my pee. For example, I drink a lot of water, so normally my urine is pretty clear, like a mountain creek, or saran wrap. In the morning though, it’s more yellow, probably because I am not able to take in as much water while I am asleep, which results in a deeper urinary shade. Hmmm? Repeat that please. Ah yes, the Confederate flag and free speech. This is similar to the restroom situation above. If I were in dire need of bath tissue and a Confederate flag were the only thing lying around, I suppose I would use it to wipe. I would use any flag to clean myself if that was all that was available.

So back to my pee. Sometimes I have trouble going, and OH GOD WHAT NOW? Fine. You want me to share something personal? Here goes. I’m going to hand you a filthy, dirty secret. I try to use public bathrooms as much as possible. I do. It’s gross, and it’s part of my life. It slashes my toilet paper budget, and if the thing clogs, hey, not my problem. Some teenager named Ashton or Aiden or Sean’Trell gets to clean it up, and it’ll probably learn some sort of valuable life lesson in the process, like the fact that a guy with a spinach-rich diet who only poops every three days will produce thick tubes of green feces capable of clogging a jet-flush public toilet. That’s something you just don’t learn sitting in a government-funded classroom. There. I said something about the government. Now I suppose you want me to click ‘love’ on the picture of your fat, stupid baby. Not gonna happen.

And by the way, sometimes, when I’m in the public restroom, I’ll unwind a little extra toilet paper and take it home with me. Is that a crime? It is a public bathroom. The things inside belong to the public. I am part of the public. Now you probably think I’m some uber-liberal Hillary supporter. Yes, I’m going to vote for her, provided she delivers a solution to my mysterious bowel thing. If Trump can figure it out, then I’m in his corner. Maybe I’ll be in the Dollar Tree bathroom one day and a friendly woman dressed like a man will recognize my symptoms and help me out. There’s no way of knowing.

Local Blogger Presses “Publish,” Sits Back To Await Praise And Accolades

THE INTERNET—A local blogger recently published its latest article, sat back, and vibrated in excited delight.

“Yes. This will be the one,” it says, grinning at its own genius. “People magazine, here I come.”

The post is currently wafting aimlessly through the internet, where it is completely available for the top editors at every major periodical in the world to stumble across and hire the blogger once they recognize the raw talent and “outside of the box” recklessness that comes from the “writer’s” complete absence of any formal journalistic training.

Whether it was being one of the first few thousand pundits to make the astute observation that the only people who like Justin Bieber are generally preteen girls, to coining the phrase I’m more confused than Bruce or Caitlyn Jenner’s genitals!, or just having an all-around knack for “sticking it” to pop culture figures who “have it coming,” this blogger has got the stuff.

After pressing the “Publish” button, the blogger spent half an hour sorting through old Facebook photos, trying to decide which one would look good as a profile pic for the weekly column it will soon be writing for the local newspaper, which will then lead to a nationally syndicated gig.

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