Go Me!     Wow, I am really fucking OLD!!!   My Reunion   Ok, so I got this message on MyBookSpaceFaceFriendsAndAllThatBullshit.com for a "friend" request from someone that I went to high school with. It turns out it's a guy named Mark Akens that I graduated with from Rexall High and Pre-Prison Training School in Grand Junction, CO.   Yay.   I looked at his profile for a bit and eventually made my way over to his website only to find out that Mark is, like, all successful and good looking and shit. It's really gross.   I remember Mark as being a good guy with a lot of talent. He played piano, sang, acted and all kinds of other stuff. Mark was in the band, drama, and choir and had, at least in retrospect, some decent drive. It's nice to see that at least ONE of us in that stoner pit had the sense to make something of himself. One thing that Mark doesn't mention on his page is that he sold his soul to that ShamWow guy in exchange for his relative success.   SIDEBAR MODE: ON   I sold my soul to the ShamWow guy in exchange for a set of golf clubs which wasn't the best idea I've ever had. Because I wasn't specific about my desires, I got a bent up, rusty set of clubs made for a three-year-old kid with "special needs." They were covered in what might be best termed as "unknown, dried up, brown and green stuff." After I got the clubs, I realized that I don't play golf, that I'm allergic to lawns, and that I have a severe phobia of little white, dimpled balls. Be careful when dealing with that ShamWow guy, he is tricky...   SIDEBAR MODE: OFF   Sorry, I'm OK, now.   Anyway, so I get this invitation from Mark and find out that he is starting a group for a class reunion. Not a big deal, not really. I don't do the reunion thing mainly because I don't really want to go see -   1. People that have no idea who I am since I was a complete social reject...   Or...   2. People that DO know who I am because they were the worthless, sister chasing, no good, donkey-bonking, short-bus rejects that were busy beating the shit out of me on a weeky basis in order to prove that they were "real" men.   This proof-of-manhood consisted of beating me or engaging in any number of other activities that usually involved pummelling the shit out of utterly defenseless things. I call them Jack-Booted Puppy Stompers or JBPSs.   Sorry, I didn't mean to veer into the pure meaninglessness that was my high school years. Actually, my high school was not nearly the worthless experience than I have portrayed it to have been.   SIDEBAR MODE: ON AGAIN   Yeah, ok, I'm lying.   My high school experience was actually worse that the worthless experience than I have portrayed it as.   Much Worse.   High school ranks up there with the following situation:   I find myself unable to communicate but fully conscious while on a life support machine in a Louisiana hospital. In this scenario, I am in excruciating and intractable pain but I am on no pain medications since I have been declared prematurely brain-dead by incompetent, inbred doctors. Furthermore, I watch as my near-swooning wife stands over my bed saying, "He would have wanted it this way..." while the doctors yank on all the plugs and connections. As I fade away into the painful oblivion, destined for Hell itself, I see my wife so upset with my passing that she can barely fan herself with the insurance papers...   Yeah, that's kind of close to my high school experience...   As usual, I digress...   SIDEBAR MODE: OFF AGAIN   I shouldn't rail against the old days, I have managed to grow up fairly well adjusted and I have been able to make the bills on and off over the years. I despised those years for many different reasons but I tend to just focus on the school stuff because it is easier (and somewhat funnier) to talk about.   Anyway, I got an informal invite to my class reunion and started crunching the numbers and tried to talk my wife about it.   The conversation went something like this...   ME: FUUUUUUUUCK!!!! FUCKA FUCKA FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCKKKK!!!!!!   ADRIENNE: What's wrong, Frank.   ME: JESUS FUCKING FUCK!!!!!! GODDAM FUCKING JESUS FUCK!!!!!   ADRIENNE: Oh I see... You just got the invitation to your reunion...   ME: HOLY BATFUCK, FUCKMAN!!!! HOLY FUCKING JESUS FUCK!!!   ADRIENNE: Now don't take it so hard, it's only been...   ME: NOOOOO!!! FUCKING AHHHHH!!!!!!!   [GUNFIRE]   Yeah, 30 years...   What the hell happened?   Adrienne tried to console me by telling me that she was all of 10 MONTHS OLD when I graduated...   God.   Damn. More Work...   On a number of occasions in my life, I have worked two jobs. I did it mostly so that my ex-wife could stay home and take care of the kids. A few times I actually worked two full-time jobs and found the experience simultaneously invigorating and insane.   My first full-on overemployment venture was split between working at a lockdown house for violent sex offenders and contract technical support for FedEx. That experience lasted about seven months and got me back into the private sector again. I found out that I liked call center work and I also found that I hated that shrouded lady that used to walk around my bed when I was trying to get to sleep. (It's true, I used to get so tired that I would hallucinate this weird woman in a burka walking around my bed. She haunted me for months.)   Later I found myself washing DIA airplanes at night and doing contract technical support for AOL in the daytime. Nothing too weird happened in this situation, I just hated the AOL thing. AOL sucked. I walked off the AOL job after not meeting sales quotas.   MORE SIDEBAR CRAP MODE: ON   AOL was the black-hole of suckage as far as a contract employee job went.   As contract-employees, we were given no tools, no time, and no authority to deal with customer problems. AOL was constantly updating their software in such a way that it wasn't compatible with any computers over a year old. Their policy for troubleshooting older software was to tell the customer the customer to buy a new computer and pray to whatever Gods that the caller believed in that AOL wouldn't modify their software again for a while.   At the end of each call, I was required to try to sell one goddam thing or another to the caller after being unable to fix the customer's internet problem. If I didn't get a fifteen percent conversion rate and didn't keep my times down to ten minutes, I would be written up.   I was just glad that the AOL assholes didn't work in medicine or some other important field. Can you imagine what it would be like in an AOL emergency room?   A Day in th AOL Emergency Room   INTERIOR: A DOCTOR IS IN A MODERN EMERCENCY ROOM LOOKING AT A TEN YEAR OLD GIRL WHO APPEARS TO BE SERIOULSY INJURED.   DOCTOR: Holy moly! This kid's a mess, what happened to her?   MOTHER OF PATIENT: She was hit by a train while saving her little brother's life. She managed to get his wheelchair off of the tracks and to save his puppy before she got clipped by the Zephyr going one-hundred-ten miles an hour.   DOCTOR: I can save her as long as I can get the supplies out of this cabinet here...   INTERIOR: DOCTOR GOES TO SUPPLY CABINET AND TRIES TO OPEN THE DOOR. AN ALARM SOUNDS WHILE BARS LOWER FROM THE CEILING AND BARRICADE THE CABINET. THE DOCTOR BACKS UP AND STARES IN DISBELIEF.   DOCTOR: What the hell? I need MAST trousers and some epi. A defib unit would be nice, too, if things go south. What the hell is this about?!?   AOL VOICE: I'm sorry, but you are a contract employee, you do not have acess to any of the useful equipment. The tools that you tried to get access to are for the REAL hospital employees.   A JANITOR PUSHING A GARBAGE CART WALKS INTO THE ER WITH A HUGE STAIN ON HIS PANTS.   JANITOR: (TALKING TO THE CEILING) I just pissed myself, I need pants.   AOL VOICE: Yes, Mr. Karecki. Look in here.   THE BARS AROUND THE CABINET RAISE TO THE CEILING AGAIN AND THE JANITOR RUMMAGES AROUND IN THE CABINET. THE JANITOR TAKES OUT THE MAST TROUSERS THAT THE DOCTOR NEEDED AND PUTS THEM ON. THE JANITOR LOCATES A NEEDLE AND SOME DRUGS. THE JANITOR SHOOTS UP.   JANITOR: Ahhhh, epinephrine and MAST trousers. I should be good for the REST of the day!!!   THE DOCTOR RUNS HEADLONG AT THE OPEN CABINET BUT THE BARS SLAM DOWN BEFORE HE CAN GET ANY SUPPLIES. THE DOCTOR CRASHES INTO THE BARS, RECOVERS, AND MAKES HIS WAY BACK TO THE PATIENT.   AOL VOICE: I'm sorry, these supplies are off-limits to contract employees. You now have nine minutes to resolve the issue...   DOCTOR: Fine. Whatever. (OPENING HIS MEDICAl KIT) I'll just use whatever I brought in my bag here.   AOL VOICE: I'm sorry, but it is against AOL policy to use private posessions in the workplace to address AOL issues. You now have eight minutes to resolve the issue...   DOCTOR: Screw you. (PULLS OUT SPLINTS AND A STETHESCOPE AND STARTS ASSESSING THE PATIENT) Ok, young lady, let's get this taken care of...   JANITOR BURSTS INTO THE EMERGENCY ROOM AND RIPS THE EQUIPMENT OUT OF THE DOCTOR'S HANDS. THE JANITOR THEN GRABS THE DOCTOR'S BAG AND RUNS OUT.   DOCTOR: Jesus Christ! What the hell am I supposed to do?   MOTHER OF PATIENT: Look at the monitor over here! I think her heart is going out!   DOCTOR LOOKS AT THE MONITOR AND SEES THAT THE PATIENT IS ABOUT TO ARREST. THE MONITOR GOES BLANK AND THEN SHOWS AN AOL LOGO BOUNCING AROUND ON THE SCREEN.   AOL VOICE: I'm sorry, doctor, the cardiac monitor is property of AOL and off-limits to contract employees. You now have six minutes to resolve the issue...   AN ALARM GOES OFF THE THE MONITOR EMITS A LOUD, EXTENDED BEEP. THE PATIENT IS IN CARDIAC ARREST. THE DOCTOR STARTS CPR.   AOL VOICE: I'm sorry, doctor, it just occurred to us that the entire emergency room is property of AOL and is off-limits to contract employees.   THE DOCTOR, THE PATIENT, AND THE PATIENT'S MOTHER ARE ROUSTED OUT OF THE ER BY A FLEET OF JANITORS, ALL WEARING MAST TROUSERS. THE THREE ARE HUSTLED TO A SIDEWALK WHERE THE DOCTOR CONTINUES CPR. AFTER AN HOUR OF CPR, THE DOCTOR GIVES UP.   DOCTOR: I'm sorry, she's gone.   MOTHER OF PATIENT: My GOD!! You are a BUTCHER!!!   DOCTOR: Again, I'm sorry. I had limited resources and did the best I could.   MOTHER OF PATIENT: Is THAT all you you have to say for yourself? "I had limited resources?"   DOCTOR: No, ma'am, I have a question that I am required to ask you...   MOTHER OF PATIENT: What?!? What could you possibly want to ask????!?   DOCTOR: Well, I would like to know if you are interested in purchasing luggage from one of our affiliates? It is the best luggage available and comes if a variety of...   MOTHER OF PATIENT PRODUCES A GUN FROM HER PURSE AND SHOOTS THE DOCTOR REPEATEDLY. THE DOCTOR FALLS TO THE GROUND, GASPS, AND SQUEAKS OUT TWO WORDS.   DOCTOR: Thank... You...   FADE   Yeah, I got written up ONCE for not making sales quotas and walked out of the building.   MORE SIDEBAR CRAP MODE: OFF   I have less-than-no-idea where this damned thing is going.   I started writing this in an attempt to show that as I get older, I get slower and retardeder, and yes, "retardeder" is a word. See below...     Anyway, I started this thing talking about how old I am and how I am not the box of plutonium that I used to be. Somehow, it turned into a weird rant about AOL.   Anyway, I'm working another tech support in addition to the organ donor call center and I'm finding that I am really OLD. In giving up an additional 30 hours a week to the second job and I have made a few new observations about the whole two job thing. Staying up 20 hours a day for four consecutive days a week is fun, especially if you enjoy rambling incoherently and screaming at inanimate objects for prolonged periods of time. God only talks to me when I am overemployed. Even at that, God is incommunicado on most days. When God DOES decide to talk to me, he usually goes on and on about some trivial crap in a part of the universe that I don't understand: "Did you hear that Wong Jun Lee was dissing Chang Wo about the color of his car? He was all like, 'Wing chow gong gwann yeow grung...' " It's nice that he wants to talk to me, I just wish he'd tell me about stuff I give a shit about. People don't like me after a few days without sleep. I can usually laugh off bullshit until I'm really tired. For whatever reason, I can't ignore horseshit answers when I am really zonked out. If supervisors are stupid enough to ignore this fact, they are in for an ass kicking. "WHAT?!?! I can't credit customers for missing service but I can get FIRED if I don't resolve the complaint? How about I read this bullshit memo to them over the phone to them and tell them that I HAVE to make them happy but that I am NOT ALLOWED fix anything??? How does that hit you, HUH???" Yeah, I have issues. Wah. Driving is fun when I'm tired because most dogs are targets. Seeing eye dogs are off limits, though, and wheelchair people with assistance dogs can really fuck up your paint job. I don't like okra, even when I'm NOT tired. I have no idea why this is important to relay. I guess if my brain was firing on all cylinders, I would never have added this entry to the list. Working two jobs is worse when one is older because suckage becomes more obvious as one ages. Noticing suckage becomes a way of life as one gets on in the years. When a person hits something like 70 years old, EVERYthing sucks, even suicide.   Well, enough bitching.   Wah.   Later...     Copyright 2009 by Frank Emsley

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