Tag Archives: my fucking job

Work Diary Part Four: Bossman

6 Feb

July 2012

My boss is  a subhuman monster who should be tortured and killed in the most gruesome ways imaginable.  Flaying, fire, iron maiden– pruning shears nipping piecemeal at the genitals.  Acid.  Wild dogs.   Ants– fire ants, molasses.  Death by a canoe full of flies, like they had in ancient Greece.  Maybe psychologically broken first.  Call him fat or something.  Then physically tortured.  Then killed in a slow agonizing manner.  Then the corpse defiled, slashed almost but not quite beyond what is recognizable, and paraded in front of his family and whatever true friends he has, if any.  Then the family should also be killed.  Anyone sharing any genetic connection to this cruel and petty demon should be purged from the earth, maybe three or four generations back.  Incinerate the corpses, crush the bones, launch the remnants in small packets into deep space lest they reform into this thing again.  This thing that looks like a person but knows only hurt and selfishness.  This weird being, animate, but without a soul.  Without empathy.  Torture and kill him and play his screams over the PA system in schools, as a warning.  This is what happens when you are like this man. Continue reading

Getting Fired Diary: To Whoever Has to Monitor My Internet Activity

18 Jan

Man-at-computer

They are monitoring my computer.  I get the network logon screen every time the thing hibernates for ten minutes, which never happened before.  I.T. is watching me.  Looking for me to steal data?  There is nothing your corporation has that I could possibly give a shit about.  You broadcast sitcoms, for Christ’s sake.  Looking for a reason to fire me with cause and fuck me out of unemployment?  Who knows.

I don’t give a fuck.  What am I gonna do, not jerk off at work?  I’m the last one in the fucking office.  My ball sac grows weighty through the long work day.  I’m sour and miserable and about to get into fucking San Fernando Valley traffic- what would you have me do?  I must be relieved.

Who is the guy who has to go through every web site I’ve visited while on the clock.  God, I hope it’s a guy, but– of course not.  I.T. is tapping it but the results gotta go to H.R., and there is not a male H.R. representative on the face of this planet.   So it’s not going to be, like– a guy would immediately know what Xhamster is and understand.  He’s not going to think I’m studying domestic rodents.  A guy has the same fear of someone grabbing his laptop and starting to type in “youtube.” He may even know what the blooper site “daft porn” is.  He would have to fire me or reprimand me or fuck me out of unemployment but at least he would understand.  A smart guy would see the exact videos I spent the most time on and go look them up.  Dude had that one up for eight minutes- it must be the shit.  Then he jacks off at work and someone else is monitoring him– quis custodiet ipses custodies?  Who jacks off to the jackoffs?

But a woman, she’s not gonna know what any of that shit is.  She’s gonna see that I keep refreshing the stats page on delicioustacos.com, though, and know it’s my blog.  So, madam, allow me to explain:

7:00pm rolls around.  My asshole boss and my asshole colleague have left, finally.  It felt like a thousand lifetimes but at last they’re gone.
Continue reading

Work Diaries, Part Two

2 Dec

main-rotating-images-telemarketer

September 2012

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty god damn motherfucking good at work today, except for, you know, I fucked some little things up.  Who cares.  I hate that menial part of my job, I hate it I hate it I hate it- it’s over.  It’s over.  God damn, it’s fucking over, thank you Jesus.  Thank you Lord.

Now all I gotta do is figure out how to get some god damn motherfucking money.  Cobble a living together.  Cover scripts for money.  Get some bullshit job.  Work for (REDACTED), doing some real estate scam.  Something.

I will make it.  It will be OK.  I came to California with no money.  Or, my grandmother had given me a $500 savings bond and I used it to buy a bicycle, a mattress, and pay the rent on a room.  I got a job out of the newspaper the next day.  Cold calling places.  The job was telemarketing.  I was good at it, but it killed me.  Jobs kill me.  I wasn’t built to work. Continue reading

Work Diaries, Part One

1 Dec

The hammer has fallen and I am finally losing my job. To celebrate, I am digging through my journals and reminding myself how much it sucked:

August 2012:

Work did not turn out as badly as I expected today.  This is another way of saying it is one of the top ten work days in my career history.  I expected for months and months worth of tiny fuckups and general laziness to be exposed today, and that I would be rightly castigated.  But my boss is too busy.

I always think: he’s an asshole, but it’s also true that I fucking suck at my job and I don’t give a fuck about it.  I do not give a fuck about movies and TV shows and the various processes and means of support necessary to make these things.  The whole enterprise is too much motherfucking work for very little return.  There are too many hustlers and opportunists and salesmen cluttering up the phone lines and making it impossible to actually see material that is good.  There are too many people trying to be screenwriters.  It is too easy for them to get agents and managers, and too easy for these agents and managers to call me with these shitty screenwriters’ projects and waste my time and exhaust me and it’s because I’m afraid of saying no to them.  And in some corner of my soul I find it offensive because I think I’m a better writer than these people.  Which is not the case.  Three paragraphs a day about jerking off does not compare to writing a fully realized screenplay, no matter how stupid or unfunny it might be. Continue reading

Reader Mailbag: Are You Dead or Something?

11 Oct

My 4 fans ask:

How come you haven’t posted in so long– did you die?

No, I just took a week off.

It was just such a weird week that I didn’t even beat off.  Or I did, but less than usual.  I have beat off just about every day for the past 26 years, but this week– the car was dead; I would have to take the bus home.  The 218 half an hour over Laurel Canyon, drop off at Sunset and Crescent Heights, wait half an hour for the 2– not the 302, which Google Maps had assured me in its public transit directions would pick me up and take me home toute fucking suite– the 2.  Because the 302, which is the bus that comes by two minutes after the 218 reaches Sunset and Crescent Heights, that one will just blow right by you as you stand hanging half off the sidewalk holding your briefcase like a jerkoff in a whirlwind of leaves and wrappers stirred up by the 302 and you’ll swear that the driver had a malicious gleam in his eye. Black guy.  I assume he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you, cracker!” as he deliberately ignores my stop.  In reality, he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you cracker!” As he goes about his prescribed route which does not include my stop.  Go ahead and think “fuck you, cracker,” by the way, black people.  None of us care. Continue reading

Diary 9-18-12: Suck My Fucking Dick, Mitt Romney

20 Sep

Image stolen from Kourtney Williams of Comedicprose.com

Still haven’t had the hammer drop.  Work is creeping back to normal.  I am becoming scared of my boss again just out of reflex.  Maybe he changed his mind?  Maybe it turned out to be not cheap to fire me, is what it is.  He thought he could hire someone else at half my salary and found out it’s not nearly that little, or maybe he’s just waiting for TV development season to be over.  For things to slow down.  But in any case, no; I have incontrovertible evidence.   Even if he can’t hire a guy out of the Home Depot parking lot to do my job.  It’s not an if, it’s a when.

So I’m still working but I know I’m gonna get fired.  The weird thing is, all this Mitt Romney shit– where he was secret camera-ed talking about how forty seven per cent of the people are mooching bums who just want a handout from the government– even though I am still working my ass off every motherfucking day and contributing generously to the federal tax base, I still feel shamed when he says that.  Because I MIGHT be collecting unemployment in the future. Soon I will be a useless layabout dragging society down; the world would be better served if I were meat for Romney’s Afghan Hounds.  Put your nose to the grindstone, boy– treat finding a job like it is your job.  There are makers and takers, producers and moochers, and we rightly spit on these moocher-takers who just lay around all day collecting the money that they’ve been forced to pay into the unemployment system over their thousands and thousands of hours of working hard as hell, nonstop, for twelve fucking years.  Twelve years I haven’t had time off from having a job.  Never took a big vacation. When I wasn’t working, I was interning; spending my savings from my last job working my ass off to work for free so I could get another job working my ass off. I didn’t feel great about being a productive member of society during this time.  I felt like shit.  I did not get to smugly revel in my low drag pay taxes and never cost the government a cent lifestyle.  But now that I’m getting the shitcan I feel like an unworthy slug.  I will have no purpose in society. Continue reading

Well Thank God

14 Sep

I’m getting fired.  I know it, but my boss hasn’t told me yet.  But I know it.  I can’t say how, because the way I found out was (REDACTED), and people who know me through work read this web site.    You people will soon not know me through work.  Maybe you will know me as a human being.

Anyway, I’m getting fired.  I got tipped off when the H.R. lady for the  large corporation– fuck it, I’ll just say it, who cares now.  I work for a production company that has what’s called a “term deal” at (REDACTED), the studio, not the network that you’ve actually heard of and is what any sane person would assume you mean when you say “(REDACTED)”– this is why I fucking hate show business, having to explain this god damn shit to people at parties– anyway, my boss gets a chunk of money to have an office at (REDACTED) and in return all the TV shows we make have to get underwritten by (REDACTED), the studio.

I knew when the lady from (REDACTED) corporate H.R. was calling for my boss.  And he didn’t want to take the call when I was there.  A couple times she called, meaning, he had called her back.  There is no other call he would ever make himself, when I wasn’t around. It means he’s firing me.  He shut his door and was talking to her.  He is an idiot, which means, he does not know that everyone in the entire building can hear every word of every call he’s on when both doors of his office are closed.  It causes maybe a ten per cent reduction in the noise he’s making, closing these hollow-core doors that resonate like tympanis.   I would have brought it up to him but then he would have made me get into a long involved struggle to get the doors replaced with soundproof vault doors but without him paying for it; I would have had to convince people whose entire jobs are to ensure that (REDACTED) Corporation does not spend money, to spend a ton of money replacing the doors in the building so that he wouldn’t need to speak slightly more softly, and bringing it up would have made him forever vigilant about the acoustics of the free doors and etc., so fuck it. There is no winning. Bringing up a problem means it is yours to solve, and it is ultimately unsolvable, and any problem with the solution is going to be blamed on you. So fuck it.  Anyway, obviously, I am going to eavesdrop on this call.  I can’t not eavesdrop in any of his calls; I constantly have to hear his voice. When I go to hell it will be piped in.   But this is the one time I desperately wanted to. I had to know. Continue reading

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