Work Sucks

So I just remembered I had a blog. This is the place I could have been wasting all my time, except I have been exploring the internet, reading Fark and looking at drunks on Collegehumor, with occasional forays into Wikipedia. I could have been writing about the joys of running a small tax office and the heartwarming fuzziness of a new relationship. Instead, I left this blank for about four months.

So to bring you up to speed: Tax season started, with me running the office, a franchise of Liberty Tax Service. And let tell you, few jobs have ever been less exciting than tax preparation. The advantages are that it's clean and little heavy lifting. The main disadvantage is that I'm on salary, which means I can work 80 hours a week and not get any extra money.

We got off to a good start in January. Had a guy marketing for me, running around in an Uncle Sam costume and delivering coupons and cookies. Yes, I actually convinced somebody to do this job. Getting lots of good work done, then he ended up in the hospital with a brain anurysm. Since then, I have been unable to fill his shoes, which has pissed me off.

Now it's March, and business is slow. Much slower than anybody had hoped. But, hey, I'm out of here next month, and the owners are selling the place.

In the meantime, I got a girlfriend, which is awesome. She's cute, and she likes comic books. Thanks to her, I have a jar to put my sugar in. She's awesome.

So that's it. My life to date. I'll probably post something a little more up to date later.

Necessities of Life, Part One

So today I decided that I needed two things without any further delay. First, I realized several days ago after buying a few cans of concentrated orange juice that I don't actually own a pitcher. I briefly considered just spooning the concentrate directly into my mouth and swishing it around with a gulp of water, but I decided against this because nobody had actually dared me to do it yet.

Second, I decided that I was sick of throwing the trash into shopping bags hanging from a hook inside the small pantry in the kitchen. Not only do these fill up fast, but I am becoming increasingly paranoid that a bag will leak and I will be forced to clean the floor, a task I rank with tooth surgery and conversation with 18-year-old SDSU sorority chicks.

So, after class (mind-numbing, but I'll bore you with that later) I drove to my local Target store because we all know that Target has everything, without being K-mart or, God forbid, Wal-Mart.

Both these items took a great deal more effort than I had assumed they would.

The pitcher. I figured they would be in kitchen supplies, and indeed, many were. Shiny pewter ones, stylish ceramic ones with artful coloring, clear glass ones. Lots of wonderful variey. Unfortunately, I wasn't looking for a pitcher that would impress potential girlfriends. I just wanted something cheap that wouldn't shatter when it hit the floor and necessitate the wearing of shoes in the kitchen for fear of teeny tiny splinters of glass.

So then a nice man in a red vest asked me if I needed any help. I said that I did and told him I wanted a pitcher. He then showed me the pitchers I didn't want. I want a cheap plastic pitcher, I said.

Ooh, he said. Not sure we have any plastic pitchers. I found this hard to believe, but he asked around on his walkie-talkie anyway. Finding the information I wanted took, once again, more effort than I had assumed it would.

I could start making pretentious, asinine observations about the level of intelligence and aptitude of the Target employee at this point, but I have to admit, if I worked there, I really doubt that I would know where the plastic pitchers were either. I just wouldn't care. Target is a huge place, full of stuff. If I got paid enough money to care, maybe I would, but the pay at Target sucks. So I wouldn't. And I would be morose, too.

And we found out where the pitchers were, anyway. Aisle C2, down the main aisle there, hang a left at the toilet paper.

So that task done, I set out to find the trash cans. Another man told me they were the next aisle over. I was disappointed once again, though. Some trashcans were there, but of the very-small-we'll-just-hide-this-can-and-pretend-it-isn't-in-the-room variety. First off, I don't want a small trash can, because I am already emptying the trash every daya anyway. Second, I have no place to hide it. Third, I'm a guy, so hiding my trash isn't nearly as important to me as it is to my mother.

Anyway. The trashcans I wanted belonged on the empty shelf next to the small trash cans. If you're clever, you can see what my problem here was. That's right. An empty shelf means the trash cans I want are out of stock.

So depressing. But I cheered myself up by impulse-buying the first season of Scrubs, then agonizing over the money I wasted as I walked out of the store.

But at least now I have orange juice, dammit.

Meet Lenin the Duck

Hi. This is Lenin. Yes, I know. He is a communist. He carries a card, even. Keeps it in his girlfriend's nest, when he's not sleeping on her couch or mimeographing his pinko newsletters.

It is so embarrassing.

I met Lenin at the park, when I was running. Actually, I was hyperventilating and having spasming leg cramps because I had thought about running. Needless to say, while I was lying on the grass in humiliated agony, Lenin waddled over and began quacking to me about the future of America.

Apparently, capitalism is a bad thing. I guess the only reason I can pay the low low price of $150 on my designer jeans is because they are made in overseas sweatshops by people who only earn ¢5 per hour because they Don't Speak English.

I was confused. First of all, if they are people who Don't Speak English, then maybe they deserve to make no money. Secondly, if the labor is so cheap, then why are the designer jeans still so expensive?

Lenin told me, as he waddled back and forth in excited agitation, that the Greedy Corporate Fat Cats of America were taking advantage of not only the people who Don't Speak English, but the God-fearing American Consumers as well. With the low low overseas wages, the profit margins are potentially huge. Launching a marketing campaign of staggering complexity and evil genius, the Greedy Corporate Fat Cats had convinced the American Consumers that in order to be socially acceptable and get laid as often as possible, it was a abosolutely necessary, nay, a moral imperative, to pay $150 for a pair of jeans.

In fact, Lenin told me, the propaganda campaign was so successful, the Fat Cats couldn't believe it. They tried to push the envelope, to see just how far they could go. They started to tell the American Consumers that what is old is in, that worn is trendy, and now they are earning spectacular profits on T-shirts made in the '70s and jeans that look ten years old.

But, wait, I said. This doesn't make sense. They wouldn't do this. We speak English.

The joke is one you, Lenin cried, shaking so hard feathers were flying in the air. Everything you do is predicated on the earning of money, all so that you may have needlessly expensive clothes and $5 lattes! And even worse, the people who Don't Speak English

Paragraphs

Ahhh...it feels nice here. I would like everyone to notice this:

New paragraph.

Did you notice? I'll do it again.

Another new paragraph.

It's so exciting, isn't it? That hovel over on www.blog.com did not grant me this basic typographical right, and I was forced to vacate in a fit of pique. I had tried to speak to the system administrater about this debilitating problem, but to no avail. Instead, I was referred to many unenlightening documents filed under the fanciful title of 'Help'.

I was not 'Help'ed.

And so onto to greener pastures, where I may feel free to speak in paragraphs like any God-fearing American should. Now having regained this basic necessity, I will be posting more regularly, so that I may imagine that somebody will be entertained by my mental swill.

Paragraph.

Paragraph.

Mmmm...feels nice.