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

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

18 Jan

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

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

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

20 Sep

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

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