I Hope Peyton Manning One Day Decides To Endorse The Company I Work For

How cool would it be to work at an insurance company for like 20 years, and then one day thumb-headed Peyton Manning walks in, films a few commercials, and gets paid more money than you’ve made over those two decades?

It would be very cool, because Peyton Manning is a brand, a lifestyle, a man whose skin and your television screen are one and the same. Let’s not ruin this for him, okay? The man made enough money playing football to ensure that no one in his family has to work for the next three hundred years, and that is precisely why he should continue to get paid thousands of times more than the people who are actually employed at the companies he is shilling for.

At our next company meeting, I plan to request a pay decrease to free up some funds in order to lure Manning in, and hopefully he brings the shit-heads from The Voice with him. Given a choice to have a shot at retiring before I’m 75, or watching Peyton Manning tell Adam Levine he should change his band’s name to Maroon 18, well, let’s just say I plan on working for a very, very long time.

Or maybe a guy as rich as Peyton Manning should be paid entry level wages by these companies.

No. He needs this money.

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.

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.”

 

 

Rethinking the Mouse Trap

We bought a mouse trap. You’re supposed to put cheese in those things, but people don’t know that cheese is actually really bad for mice. Kind of in the same way you’re not supposed to feed bread to ducks, because the yeast consumes sugars in their stomachs, releasing an alcohol cloud that expands and causes an explosion. Just imagine walking up to a duck that had eaten bread earlier that day. Let’s just say your new nickname would be ‘Nubby’ or ‘Guy whose balls got blown off by an exploding duck.’

Anyhoo, cheese doesn’t have as dramatic an effect on mice as that, but it is very high in fat and can cause cardiovascular issues down the road. That’s why I prepared the below spice blend:

 We’ve got a little SPG mix, onion powder, oregano, parsley, and crushed red pepper for a bit of heat. Not only does this pop way more on the tastebuds, it comes without the bloated waistline and crap backup that are major hallmarks of cheese.

This is also easier on the mousetrap, because the metal bar doesn’t have to fight through a thick layer of cheese fat to crush the rodent’s brain, and there won’t be any exploding residuals from the constipation when the deceased mouse……..voids, if you catch my drift.

Give Us a Film About Joe ‘Mental’ Mentalino

Murphy Brown is back. It’s looking like we’re going to get a movie about every person who ever appeared in a Harry Potter book. And every book that appeared in a Harry Potter book. And then the books that are in those books. Even Bumblebee, a goddamn Volkswagen, is getting a spin-off.

I’d like to see a prequel to Dumb and Dumber focusing on the two bit thug Joe ‘Mental’ Mentalino. Now there’s a character study.

Show us some of his childhood. Dig deeper into his struggle with ulcers. Has he always had them? Were they caused by his life of crime? Or was he in such great pain that he was driven to thuggery and buffoonery in order to be able to afford ulcer medicine?

How did the guy get to a place in his life where he was able to cut off a parakeet’s head?

What other depraved acts has he carried out?

So many themes to explore—the development of a psyche capable of animal decapitation, America’s broken healthcare system, the irony of a man being killed by his own rat poison.

There is a market for this.

 

Moses And His Migrant Caravan Blown To Smithereens By US Military

In a pretty cool fusion of current events and biblical lore, the prophet Moses (who killed a guy one time) and his migrant caravan were blown to smithereens as they arrived at the US border, ending their 40-year journey through the desert with a bang.

After leaving Egypt—a major shithole—the caravan just kind of wafted through the wilderness and for the purposes of this story landed in the Mexican desert. Fox News believers looked on with horror as a convoy chock full of Middle Easterners made its way towards US soil.

Anyways, as the immigrants strolled up to the Texas border, the US military carried out the true hope of Donny and his followers, and blew the whole shebang to smithereens.

That’s pretty close to how it went down in the Bible, right?

 

The Best Tuscan Chicken Recipe

Don’t you hate when you click on a recipe, only to find not a recipe, but some blowhard going on and on about their Italian grandmother’s journey to the United States, and how all she had was two Sicilian dollars and her recipe book to get through the boat ride? And how the boat sank and she swam to shore, now broke, and the only recipe that survived was one for Tuscan Chicken? Fast forward a few years, and now the grandmother (who wasn’t a grandmother at this point in the story) is slangin’ hash for 25 cents a week, while at night she climbs to the roof of her tenement, gazing east towards home, trying to recall all those lost recipes, but still taking comfort in the fact that she at least still has her Tuscan Chicken. Then one day after work, a Wednesday to be exact, because she cooks Tuscan Chicken every Wednesday, a really hot guy follows the scent up the the grandmother’s door and knocks. People were still really sexist back then, so the guy is like “Hey, you’re gonna be my wife and cook that for me.” She says ‘yes’ and they get married. The guy’s misogynist patterns only continue. The years pass, and she begins to resent Tuscan Chicken, because it has now become a symbol of her oppression. She vows to make a change. Next Wednesday, she makes the Tuscan Chicken, true to the recipe, as always. Except for one minor addition—-POISON(and also some of her pee)!!!! They sit down for dinner, and she secretly pulls out a piece of pee-and-poison-free chicken for herself so she can eat without her husband becoming suspicious. Fifteen minutes later, the guy is barfing and crapping everywhere. Next thing you know, he’s dead, and the grandmother ends up in jail. Ten years into her sentence, she finally gets a job in the prison kitchen for 25 cents per month. She still remembers Tuscan Chicken. The prison kitchen doesn’t have the ingredients for it. The head of the prison says it’s not in the budget. So she sleeps with him. It turns out he was lying when he told her that if she slept with him he would have the ingredients brought in. So she poisons him and escapes. I think this is how she became pregnant. Anyways, now she’s an ex-convict single mother who has killed two people. Tuscan Chicken helps her forget all that.

It’s usually about this point in the story that the person actually gives you the recipe, and it’s really annoying that they could have just put it right at the top. It’s rather vexing. Now, you came here for a Tuscan Chicken recipe, didn’t you? Cook some chicken and pour Italian seasoning on it.

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 I 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.

 

 

 

As A Novelist, I See Art Everywhere

As a novelist, it is my job to take a variety of drugs—smack, clappy, scrim-sham, bluppies, etc.—get really, really up there, then ride out the comedown with dark liquor and a tube of glue. Then, and only then, do I even think about writing a novel. You see, reaching these extreme highs and lows allows me to achieve the realization that there is art in everything.

‘Hey look, a tree!’ You, as a normal, drooling dullard may exclaim at the sight of a tree. But you’d be wrong. That tree is actually art. And I know that.

‘Wow, that cloud looks like a hamster!’ Your underdeveloped sense of vision may tell you. I’m sorry, but that cloud actually looks like Hobby Lobby, because that is the true birthplace of art. And also because the universe wouldn’t waste time sending you, a person who hasn’t even written a novel, a giant rain-filled rodent. Give the earth art, and she’ll give it right on back.

‘It transcends space, expresses the notion that there are no limits, no control; yes, chaos rules here—and it is beautiful,’ you cluck as you observe Autumn Rhythm. But as the novelist, I see…..a close up of ass hair? Maybe there’s some genitalia hidden in there somewhere. No, no. Just a bunch of ass hair clogging up a drain.

Autumn Rhythm by Jackson Pollock

The Novelist Encounters An Abundance Of Veins

As a novelist, one of the more annoying things I’ve encountered lately is when a veiny, curly-haired lunk walks right up to me and says “How are WE doing?” And I’m thinking, hey man, I want nothing to do with your vascularity and loafers with no socks. I’m a novelist, pal, a lone wolf, not some guy who eats a ten ounce pile of barley and six hard-boiled eggs in a sitting. “WE aren’t doing anything, yo,”  I say to this throbby, pumpy dude. And right to his face. No fear at all.

Actually I just write about it here. Because that is what novelists do. We write. And cower in the presence of wide-veined men.

The Sunday Evening Art Corner

 

Sriracha and Mustard on Cafeteria Tray. April 11, 2018.

My harshest critics have called this piece a half-assed socio-political commentary on the current state of trade and culinary relations between the U.S.A. and Thailand, with a minor emphasis on the systemic sandbagging of mustard farm workers throughout the ‘yellow belt’ (the region of America blessed with ideal mustard plant growing conditions, which seems like it should be located in the southeast corner of Idaho).

In reality, all I did was try to pump some mustard out of the mustard pumping thing. There was some dried mustard caked up on there causing a partial clog. So the mustard came blasting out in an erratic spray pattern. Then I squirted some sriracha on top of the mustard. Then I finished the meal that I was using those condiments for, and sketched the above drawing using graphite on papyrus.