Monthly Archives: July 2007

ARE YOU AN ASSASSIN, PEPTO?

Let me tell you this one thing before I cough up this lump stuck in my gullet:

I hate losing my temper, and I’ve worked really hard to eradicate the entire concept of “having a temper” from my mental hard drive.

Today at work, I found it, buried somewhere in the code.

It actually started brewing and stewing on Monday, but I was able to hold it down for a while. One of the chimps that works for me in the jungle I get paid to run decided he was somehow SMARTER THAN ME, and attempted to download some bullshit streaming radio/magic playlist bullshit – ONTO A COMPUTER THAT IS PART OF A COMPANY-WIDE INTRANET, NO LESS. Of course, since he is so much SMARTER THAN ME, he thought it was okay to click some little box that popped onto his screen mentioning that part of the deal involved allowing some web junk from an outfit with the genius name of OUTERINFO to EMBED ITSELF INTO THE OPERATING SYSTEM*.

It was brought to my attention by the chimp that is actually supposed to be responsible for that computer – he of the bottomless well of spelling and/or grammatical errors and his never-ending run of “TUPAC WAS FROM THE BX, JUST LIKE ME, NIGGA!!!” shout outs(I constantly try to remind him that he’s a Puerto Rican, and his use of the N word is gratuitous and silly – but then he says shit like “YOU GOT JOKES, KID? YOU’S A FUNNY NIGGA!”). This, is how he broke he news to me:

“YO, THAT NIGGA DIDN’T LISTEN TO YOU, AND NOW I GOTS ALL THESE FUCKIN’ POP-UPS, B. I CAN’T EVEN CHECK MY E-MAILS WITHOUT POP-UPS AND SHIT. WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THESE FUCKIN’ POP-UPS?”

I just kind of stood there for a good long minute, marveling at his public speaking skills(another of his many gems that come rolling off his tongue when the mood strikes him – “IF JESUS WAS SO FUCKING SPECIAL, WHY AM I STUCK HERE IN HELL, B? I’M A FUCKIN’ CATHOLIC!”) before I responded with the very off-the-cuff “Just call IT and tell them to fix it, and stop fucking around on these work computers before I piss in your mouths”.

I’M FUCKIN’ CLASSY LIKE THAT, B.

So…

Yesterday, the shit started popping up on my computer, too. And then the female chimp that is supposedly my “assistant”(such an over-rated word, assistant – she’s about as much help as having a herpes outbreak at a nude beach) called me over to her computer to show me the ridiculous pair of silicon-enhanced cancer bags that had popped up on HER screen.

That’s when I really started to lose it a bit.

When the chimp responsible for this situation sauntered into work (10 minutes late, mind you), I asked him to close my office door and sit down. He somehow thought we were about to have a friendly conversation, because he immediately started to make small-talk with me. I let him talk for about 25 seconds before I lit him the fuck on up.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU FUCKING THINKING, MAN? DIDN’T I TELL YOU NOT TO FUCK AROUND WITH THESE COMPUTERS, EINSTEIN? NOW THERE’S SOME BULLSHIT POP-UP CRAP HAPPENING ON MY COMPUTER, WHICH IS KEEPING ME FROM BEING ABLE TO DO MY JOB. DO YOU THINK THAT MAKES MY BOSSES HAPPY? DO YOU? I DON’T KNOW WHEN IT WAS THAT YOU TOOK YOUR ‘I’M SMARTER THAN SEAN’ PILL, BUT I HAVE TO TELL YOU – THAT SHIT DIDN’T WORK. NOW GO CALL THE IT DEPARTMENT, AND UN-ASS THAT SHIT BEFORE I ACTUALLY GET PISSED OFF AND TELL YOU HOW I REALLY FEEL. I HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GOOD FUCKING TIME, ARE YOU?”

(That’s kind of close to what his face looked like, other than the race and all that)

After he scurried out of my office, I kind of sat there in a daze, staring at my screen and the wall of windows that were opening up all on their own – dating sites, used car sites, jugs, lost classmate search engines, credit report sites, wallpapers, free ring tones, more boobs, an ad for an ab-roller(even the pop-ups were mocking me at this point) – and I realized that there was no way I could win. The bug was embedded into the OS, and I was going to have to call my IT guys down in Memphis myself. Which I then did, and they told me to ship my geekbox down to them for rehabilitation(which I did tonight before I left work).

NOW COMES THE FUN PART…

Anyone who doesn’t live in a mud hut in the middle of a rain forest knows what happened here in The City yesterday – a steam pipe dating back to 1924 decided to burst, sending all kinds of people running for their lives out of fear that THE TERRORISTS had made a return engagement. This happened right in the middle of rush hour, and right next to Grand Central Station – a major commuter hub. A commuter hub that happens to get used daily by(as if you couldn’t guess already!) – PEPTO.

Pepto called me at 5:12AM, to let me know that he wasn’t going to make it in today, because there was supposedly ASBESTOS being released into the air.

ASBESTOS?

Look – anyone who grew up here in the Northeast, let alone in The City or any of the suburbs surrounding it, has already been plenty exposed to asbestos. It’s in all the schools, libraries, apartment buildings, train stations, and breakfast cereals in the area. Not to mention the fact that the environment in which Pepto works is filled with paper and toner dust from the Reprographic machines.

GENIUS.

It never ceases to amaze me how easily the general population will take advantage of something semi-tragic and/or cataclysmic so that they can malinger.

Pepto, of course, is in his own motherfucking league.

I’ll spare you all the play-by-play, but I’ll tell you this much – his retardery today certainly didn’t do anything to make my overall mood any better. I no longer have a geekbox to use at work, which renders me useless. My employees are all escapees from Planet Mongo.

And I’m fucking sleepy.

Good night, and good luck.

*I know nothing about computers – I just know mine is broken.

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Filed under dumbassery, fun at work, Pepto, racism, tomfoolery

DEATH MACHINE, INFEST MY CORPSE TO BE

Have you ever had to clean your way through a pile of dishes so nasty, that the entire time you’re working on them you find yourself fighting back not only your gag reflex and/or vomit – but tears?

THIS IS NOT EVEN CLOSE TO BEING A FAIR REPRESENTATION OF LAST NIGHT’S BATTLE.

Back story:

The Wife and I are very busy people. Like – we both have these things called “a job”, wherein people rely on us to do something in order for us to GET PAID. I know this is an alien concept to a lot of you knuckleheads, but after a long day of me surfing the space we call “cyber” hunting around for clues as to whateverthefuck happened to this man:

– I get good and tired, you know? And The Wife? She spends her day being a therapist with scissors, trimming/cutting and coloring the hair of all of the mentally unbalanced and emotionally decimated women who’ve moved to The City in hopes that Sex In The City was really a super-secret hidden beacon sent out just for them.

Basically – we ended up with a pile of dishes that made me feel as though this l’il fella was living in our sink:

YOU BET YOUR BIPPY I WAS SCARED.

Being the trooper that I am wont to be from time to time, I went into this battle prepared – Slayer’s REIGN IN BLOOD set to stun on the trusty I-Pod, a burning Marlboro Menthol Light dangling precariously from my lips.

(Although, in hindsight, I sure do wish I had me a pair o’ these on)

The first task was finding out why the sink itself seemed to be a breeding ground for little gnat-like things that were flying around my head. I tried to organize my assault by taking all of the silverware and putting them into a soap and hot water-filled glass (The Wife has been known to hide a shiv or two underneath a not-so-threatening looking bowl to see if my blood is actually red or not). I then took the skillet that was sitting on top of the stove, and scraped the remnants of a taco experiment into the trashcan*.

MMMM…MEATY GOODNESS.

After I’d set the SKILLET FROM HELL back on the stove top to soak (totally full of the hottest and soapiest water), I started to tackle the mound of “dishes” that were remaining in the sink. I started off small – can’t go too big from the start, or you’ll end up blowing out a wrist(See: EXHIBIT A) – I knocked out all of the little dishes and bowls. They were nothing more than a minor nuisance for me, as the larger dishes seemed to have some substance on them that had adhered itself so strongly that the aforementioned substance was impervious to my determined and Slayer-fueled dish washing skill set.

(EXHIBIT A)

Being the overall BAD MOTHERFUCKER that I is – that pile of evil dishes got knocked the fuck on out. It took me the better part of an hour, but I wasn’t going to give up until the job was done. Sweat running off of my semi-bald pate, I surveyed my now clean and less funky (Sorry, Zombie Bootsy) kitchen with pride – hell, I even scrubbed out the empty sink with some kind of scouring product that made my head all looseygoosey.

FINAL SCORE – SEAN 1, DISHES 0.

*Oddly – at the moment I was taking care of the SKILLET FROM HELL, Tom Araya was screaming about an EPIDEMIC in my inner ear. Lyrical Snippets For Your Amusement included the following:

Breeding fast in poverty
Infectious driving dormant seed
Inside your carcass start to mate
Left in charge to dominate
Waiting to unfold
Raging uncontrolled
Adapt a potency
Death machine, infest my corpse to be

Unyielding kings of agony
Test your body chemistry
Pulmonary overthrow
Possession of your inner throne
Invasions quickly override, malicious domineering strike
Flood your veins commit slow death
Deteriorate your makers met

Perpetual demise
On a fast decline
Killing tendency
Epidemic, permanent disease

Incapacitate, fall into your fate
Pain results in screams, bleed internally
Years will pass before it can be cured

Yeah, it was yet another one of those magical moments when the definition of kismet was not lost on me. But having that epiphany come from Slayer?

Priceless.

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Filed under "whatever happened to...", dirt creeps me the fuck on out, husbandly duties, laziness, rock and motherfucking roll, the wife

AN OPEN LETTER TO CHUCK KLOSTERMAN

Dear Sir,

Let me first start off by telling you that I find your work/writing to be quite entertaining and well put-together. I have yet to read anything that you’ve done that I didn’t enjoy on some basic and pleasing level. Most of my friends enjoy your work as well, and we’ve had many a conversation about the points/ideas/riffs you put into your collected volume of work.

That being said, I’d also like to bring to your attention that you, Sir, are a thieving magpie.

I know that we have never crossed paths, even though we live in the same Megatropolis. I’ve even spent time in the same taverns that you supposedly haunt, but I’ve never seen hide nor hair of you (I am certainly not stalking you*, as you’re not my type at all – I’m quite heterosexual). The likelihood of you and I being in the same place at the same time is quite ludicrous, seeing as how you are a well-paid and published author, whereas I am a lowly blogger who works a regular job to support my Marlboro Menthol Lights habit.

There are entire passages in your collected works that seem eerily lifted from my own brain, Sir.

I understand that me even writing this “letter” makes me seem as though I suffer from acute Apophenia (Google it, smartypants), but I assure you – I am quite sure that you must be some kind of alien life form that is sucking my thoughts from deep within the gooey grey matter that is my brain.

Mind you, that entire “33” chapter in Sex, Drugs And Cocoa Puffs was certainly NOT lifted from my thoughts, as I have never been a fan of Larry Bird, The City of Boston nor any professional sports franchise that makes said city their home, Republicans, and/or anyone who they themselves happen to be a fan of these things. I could care less about French Lick’s finest or any of his Celtic brethren (though I did, for a brief time, have a soft-spot for The Chief, as I too was an avid user of THC for a great number of years – but that is neither here nor there).

But the Led Zeppelin thing?

You done did rip that shit straight the fuck on out of my head, Sir.

As I read that chapter (you know – the one where you’re rocketing through the barren wastelands of Montana, “Whole Lotta Love” blaring as you contemplate dinosaurs roaming the earth), I felt my personae disappearing from my being. I started to hyperventilate (and my being a hypochondriac Jew has nothing to do with this), because the passages of words you had smashed together read as if I, MYSELF, HAD SPOKEN THEM.

YOU, SIR, ARE AN EVIL MAN, AND I WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU STAYED OUT OF MY HEAD.

It’s not just the stuff about Led Zeppelin, either – the piece about being within close proximity to a serial killer hit close to home, as I once lived in the same apartment complex as “The Phoenix Serial Shooter” (I can neither confirm nor deny that I had anything to do with his general distaste for human life – I just know he was fucking weird, liked boxing, and that he ran like a girl). I also felt as though your ESPN piece about Ali being “the first rapper” was lifted from a conversation I had with my late father, wherein I was trying to explain to him the origins of Hip Hop, and about how he’d actually been exposed to it for far longer than he thought.

All silliness aside – as I stated earlier – I quite enjoy your work. I was recently re-reading parts of Klosterman IV, and found myself actually LOLing a wee bit (and The Wife asked me why I was laughing at you if I hate you so much – so I had to explain to her that using the word “hate” in regards to you is actually my way of saying that I am envious of your abilities, to which she casually replied “That’s so mature of you, honey”).

85% of me would like to challenge you, Sir, to an Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton-type duel.

But the other 15% of me knows better. Knowing that my middle name IS Hamilton is pretty much the only mitigating factor that continually dissuades me from doing such a thing (I’m not as think as you dumb I am, you rapscallion!).

In closing, I hope this open letter finds you in good health, and that your prosperity and popularity continue to swell. Everybody loves you, Sir –

Sincerely,

Sean H. Doyle, (NotCurrentlyAWriterFor)Esquire

*Although… I do recall having a whiskey-fueled conversation with my Canukistani comrade-in-non-publishing that loosely ran along the lines of –

Me: “Fucking Klosterman, man. He seems like the kind of motherfucker, that if he were my roommate, I’d cut him up into little tiny pieces and stuff him into a footlocker”.

Him: “Easy there, Francis. Have another whiskey”.

Me: “Fine. I’m just saying – that motherfucker is somehow stealing my thoughts, and he should pay for them, goddammit”.

Him: “Look! A fresh glass of whiskey. You should drink it.”

Me: “Guhhhhhhhhhh”.

Him: “So…about those Leafs…”.

At that point, all I remember is waking up on the steps of a church on Avenue A, wearing a bloodied Darcy Tucker jersey and little else. Fucking sneaky Canukistanis – always trying to stop premeditated murders.

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Filed under jealous insecurities, nuggets of infinite wisdom, open letters to authors i am jealous of, tomfoolery, who is sean?

I AM A MASTER OF SINANJU, HEAR ME ROAR.

You did not ask to be white. So perhaps that is not your fault. You did not ask to be here. Perhaps that is not your fault, either.

BUT THIS IS HOW I FEEL ON THE INSIDE, CHIUN.

Women should stay home and make babies. Preferably, manchild.

HE IS THE ONLY MANCHILD I’VE SEEN LATELY.

PART OF ME REALLY WANTS TO EAT THIS…

It would be better for you to eat this can than what is inside of it. Why must everything in this country be coated with monositi-… monosoti…

MONOSODIUM GLUTAMATE. YOU CAN’T EVEN SAY IT!

I can say “rat droppings.” That does not mean I want to eat them.

WORD.

YOU KNOW, CHIUN, YOU’RE A REAL PAIN IN THE ASS.

That is because it is the fastest way to your brain.

WHATCHYOOTALKIN’BOUT, LITTLE MAN? I’LL WHOOP YOUR CHINESE ASS!

Chinese! KOREAN is the most perfect creature ever to sanctify the earth with the imprint of its foot.

YEAH BRAH. I CAN SEE THAT VERY CLEARLY. FOR REALS, MAN UP – I’M ‘BOUT TO KICK YOU IN THE BALLS.

Breathe out… slowly… do not gulp. If you do not breathe correctly, you do not move correctly. Pitiful. I can see the deadly hamburger has done its evil work. This is your future:

SWEET FANCY MOSES, CHIUN! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO SHOW ME SHIT LIKE THAT, SON?

Is this more to your liking, slow-footed yak?

YOU KNOW, CHIUN, THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I REALLY LIKE YOU.

Of course. I am Chiun.

FUCK IT – LET’S GO TO CONEY ISLAND, CHIUN.

BONUS ROUND:

SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

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THE BALLAD OF THE MAN THEY CALL PEPTO

I’m in a storytellin’-type of mood today, you warm and fuzzy little nogoodniks, and I’m having a hard time keeping the lid on this one:

That’s my most loyal and dedicated employee right there. Most of the time, I call him Buford – but he recently called me up at five o’thirty in the motherfucking morning to tell me he had consumed two full cans of baked beans, and was subsequently unable to come to work because he was shitting his brains out – so now I call that motherfucker Pepto.

Now – as I stated already – Pepto is my MOST LOYAL AND DEDICATED employee. That’s not to say he’s the sharpest chimp in this jungle I get paid to run – he’s kind of like a 50 watt bulb in a 100 watt world – but he does his job well, and he cares about his job. Of course, he has to care about his job, because he lives in his sister’s basement. The other chimps that work here like to pick on Pepto, making fun of him for living all the way up in Mt. Kisco (in the aforementioned basement). Mt. Kisco is in Westchester County, which is where people like M-M-M-Martha Stewart have set up camp. The other chimps are basically jealous, because they all live in rat-infested basement apartments in the dirty Bronx (which means that they should look forward to coming to Midtown to come to work, ungrateful little fuckstains).

Pepto is one of those cats, that no matter how bad your day is going, as soon as he opens up his mouth and speaks – the madness of his logic will cure whateverthefuck ails you.

Some of Pepto’s greatest diamonds and pearls:

1) One afternoon, one of the other chimps was talking about how much he loved the smell of rain or some other bullshit like that (actually – it was probably the smell of reefer, knowing my staff). Pepto, out of nowhere, coughs up this one:

“YOU KNOW WHAT SMELLS BETTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD? LITTLE GIRLS! NOTHING SMELLS BETTER THAN LITTLE GIRLS. I LOVE THE SMELL OF LITTLE GIRLS!”


(Yes – everyone’s jaws were hanging with Mr. Cooper)

Needless to say, there is hardly a day that passes where I don’t find myself looking at Pepto and wondering if he is a victim of Shaken Baby Syndrome and/or if I’ll end up seeing him on one of those Dateline stings exchanging IMs with a cop with a handlebar ‘stache and a coffee-stained tie.

2) Another afternoon, the other chimps were making fun of Pepto because he’s always yammering on about hookers (and METAL – PEPTO LOOOOOOOVES HIM SOME MOTHERFUCKING METAL). One of the other chimps decided it would be fun to allude to the fact that Pepto seems to have a predilection for transsexual Ladies O’ The Night. Pepto responded with this nugget:

“WHATEVER – ALL OF THE TRANNY HOOKERS ARE BLACK OR LATINO! THEY DEAL DRUGS OUT OF THEIR ASSHOLES. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT, YOU DUMBASSES!”

Need I say a word about that one? I didn’t think so…

3) Pepto cares a lot about ROCK AND MOTHERFUCKING ROLL. On multiple occasions, he has found himself in the middle of heated discussions in the workplace about Hip Hop and the assimilation of ROCK AND MOTHERFUCKING ROLL into the lexicon of BEATS. More nugs:

“THEY ALWAYS TAKE OUR FUCKING BEST MUSIC! WHY DID RUN-DMC HAVE TO STEAL FROM AEROSMITH? WE NEED TO TAKE OUR METAL BACK! THIS IS BULLSHIT! FUCKING RAP MUSIC, YOU PEOPLE THINK YOU’RE FUCKING SMART STEALING GOOD RIFFS! OZZY WOULD KICK YOUR ASS FOR STEALING HIS STUFF, YOU MORONS!”


When it was brought to Pepto’s attention that ROCK AND MOTHERFUCKING ROLL actually originated in Afrika (just like all of us, motherfuckers), he was beside himself. And when it was also brought to his attention that Ozzy himself had allowed plenty of Hip Hop artists to sample his work – we hid the razor blades.

Needless to say, I love me some Pepto. He’s kind of like an albino version of Sammy Davis Jr., albeit with both eyes and an inability to croon. Always entertaining, always dedicated to doing his job.


I just hope he never breeds.

And ladies?

Pepto is single and looking*.

*Obviously, his requirements might be out of the realm of my supposed readership – I highly doubt the audience is made up of drug-dealing underage trannies. Oh my fucking god I just threw up in my mouth.

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Filed under fun at work, nuggets of infinite wisdom, Pepto, rock and motherfucking roll, tomfoolery

THE DEVIL HAS MANY FACES, YOURS JUST FITS.

PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF…

I suppose that I should explain the New Digs, but then again – why should I? I roll how I roll, and that’s just kind of how a motherfucker like me rolls. Let’s just say that all alter-egos aside – this shit will be on the realest of the real.

Maybe the other site will come back, maybe it won’t. I’m just not sure yet. I do know that I plan on spreading my weathered little wings over here into new and unmined terrortories. Terror Stories. Pop Culture manifestoes. Essays about movies with penguins in them. Diatribes against THE MAN. Spittin’ HOT SCIENCE about anything I feel like at any given moment*.

Basically, this here site will be like jazz.

The picture above is a gentleman that goes by the name of Shawn Brown, the former vocalist of the legendary Swiz – IMHO one of the greatest bands of all motherfucking time. They were waaaaaay ahead of the curve – fusing hard and angular guitar lines with a rhythm section that could massacre a herd of elephants. Classic Swiz verbiage:

“DON’T PATRONIZE WITH APOLOGIES, YOU SON OF A BITCH – THE DEVIL HAS MANY FACES, YOURS JUST FITS.”

Chew on that for a while, will ya?

In the meantime, please direct your undivided attention to this:

FEAR THE KITLERS.

THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.

* This could include pretty much anything – like how I think people getting their motherfucking eyeballs tattooed is re-cock-ulous, how I think Kanye West could quite possibly be a Replicant, how much change is in my pocket rightfuckingnow, or even how much I love me a latte with soy milk in it.

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