Yes, EvilMister, There Is Such A Thing As Santa Clause

Or perhaps the employment equivalent thereof...

Allow me to explain; there are times, every day, where there is nothing for those of us who 'work the line' to do. That is to say we've either expended our product to bag (meaning the guy who mixes the product, an incredibly intense dood named Mohammed, is running behind), the electricians are banging on a part of the machine we use with hammers and nodding enthusiastically at the results, or the foreman is trying to patiently display for our employers (notorius skinflints if I ever saw any) the sorts of problems we're having with the line, and what he thinks should be done. So, like I said, there's a couple of us standing around, drooling on our coveralls and wondering if there's a number bigger than five, or in the case of JuniorHumper, he'll regale me with the frequency of sex, the age of the women he begat his sex upon, and the various (some of them highly unlikely) positions that he's forced these girls to undergo.

It's at this point that the foreman'll say 'EvilMister, why don't you go and flatten all the garbage in the big blue bin as flat as you can make. Take, ohhhhh, twenty minutes or so, do a real good job', or, 'EvilMister, how about you sweep the mezzanine, the floors, the bathrooms, and, uhhh, take your time.'

Until very recently, I had no idea what was really going on. I mean, I'm trying to bust my hump here so these mofos will give me a real job so I can get off the fucking Express Personnel train (believe me, I ain't winning friends and stunning coworkers by being a Retard), so I do it lickety-fucking-split. I mean, I sort of realized what was going on, so I did my very best on flattening that garbage, and it did take me a good five and half minutes. That was with me, in the pile of this garbage, lying on my back, staring at the sky, enjoying the fresh air. Time warp convinced me that I'd been out there for ever.

Same goes with the sweeping. I mean, I can do it as slowly as I possibly can, which is pretty goddamned slow as far as I am concerned, but apparently it ain't slow enough.

My good friend ChubbyMonk explained what's going on, as this is my first introduction into the world of slave labor in a warehouse setting. It goes like this: when the boss says go sweep for an hour, he's not really saying 'go sweep', he's saying 'fuck off until I call you, because I can plainly see that there is sweet fuck all for you to do, and I don't/can't/won't waste my fucking time coming up with anything that'll keep you occupied.'

Wait a minute.

Waste time. Go away until I call for you. Stay out of my sight, and I won't think about you. Oh, and you're still on the clock.

I can tell you that this never, ever ever happens in a retail environment. Quite the opposite. In retail, if there's nothing to do, managers will tell you 'you got time to lean, you got time to clean' and insist, no shit, that you walk around the office with a pair of needle nose pliers so you can pull all the staples out of the carpet. And watch you do it, to make sure you are doing it. And make you do it again if you do it 'wrong'. Breaks are randomly taken away, and in some cases, added on to the manager's breaks. If you are off a manager's radar in retail for more than three and a half seconds, said manager will materialize out of thin air and start looking for you, with a pair of needle nose pliers.

Now that I know that when the boss says, 'go ahead and spend some good quality time with a broom and a dust pan', I will fully spend as much time doing sweet fuck all with as much vigor as I can, all the while doing not very much at all, and getting paid for it.

This is why I call it the Santa Clause, because I get paid for doing nothing an awful lot of the time. Wheeee!

EvilMister Meets Another Retard

The joint I'm currently working at (and kicking some serious ass when it comes to the duties) likes to hire gomers from Express Personnel. This is because, for the most part, the people who come from there are unskilled laborers who are lucky if they can tie their shoes on properly (without, say, having to staple them onto their clubfeet). What does this matter?

You can work the living fucking hell out of your average unskilled laborer. You can punish that nonjob having motherfucker so hard that his eyeballs start to sweat. I know this because I was once at the receiving end. Now I, mighty EvilMister, am on the delivering end. Yeah, that's right, I punish the shit out of my fellow Express bitches. Why? Because I can, that's why.

This new dood we got is called ChronicSmoker. He's got the full meal deal when it comes to his nicotine habit. I've seen him roll his little pinners with one fucking hand, in the rain, waiting for the bus. His got the perquisite finger stains down to his first knuckle on both hands, and when he gets to the end of a smoke, man, that sonofabitch sucks. There is nothing left of the little hand rolled smoke save a greasy nicotine smudge on his fingers. I bet he could stick his fingertips into a fireplace and not feel anything.

ChronicSmoker is also, ahem, tall and ... round. And has a highpitched voice. And, if I'm not mistaken, doesn't have any teeth. (This is intel gathered from a distance, as there is no fucking way I'm gonna get close enough to this mojombo to find out whether he's got choppers or not ... worse still, he might have just one snaggle tooth and he'll use it to bore a hole into my skull to get at the juicy brains up in there.) This unholy tryptic of features (tall, fat, high voice) echoes through time and space and comes up with one creepy guy. I'm sure he's nice. Like, nice to baby kittens until he hugs them to death nice.

He said to me the other day, as we discussed the relative style and skill you can put forth when tossing 25 kilo bags around (which I no longer do, thanks very much), that he's glad he's not my girlfriend, because I'd hug her to death (I am proud to say that EvilMister is not only rapidly losing weight, but he's also growing muscle.)

I'm glad I'm not your girlfriend, because I'd hug her to death.

I didn't sleep well last night. I prolly won't sleep well tonight, either, because that shit is just fucking wrong. I could care less if this guy likes other guys. It's trite and cliche to say it, but 'some of my best friends are gay' is a true thing to say. I could care less. You're gettin' some, get some, motherfucker, and tell me all about it. No, it's the creep factor. Giant fat men with high voices don't get to say shit like that. They get to keep it bottled inside until they go home, strip down, then lather on the shaving cream and call themselves Jesus of the Soap Clan.

Also, the place we work at doesn't give us the full alottment of breaks most people are used to; we get the one coffee break and a half hour for lunch. I was perhaps a little shocked when, after nearly passing out on my first day from all the exertion, that I wasn't going to get that last break, but whatever. Water off a duck's back, man. We have a late lunch anyways, and two and half hours flys right the fuck by. ChronicSmoker, on the other hand, doesn't really breathe oxygen. He breathes cigarette, and as such, needs to replenish his dwindling reserves every few hours or he begins to whine incessantly about how a) we should switch over to 4 kilo bags (not realizing that we would still need to do a two thousand kilo batch into those bags, thereby making a shitload more picking up and bending over) or b) we really should get that last break because it's the law. (In my opinion, we should start doing 50kilo bags, 'cuz that's less overall bending, and if you bend with your knees like a good drone, you can do that all friggin' day.)

Now me, I could give a shit. As far as I know, it's a paid break, and if the guys don't wanna have us sit on our asses for fifteen minutes, that's fine. We spend at least that much standing around, waiting for the fucking machines to get fixed when they go down, and they go down every day. ChronicSmoker likes to complain a lot, which is okay by me so far, 'cuz he might be fat, a whiner, and has the approximate muscle mass of the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man hooked on Little Debbie's Cakes, but he does try.

He's just lucky that we've only been running one line of the surimi shit. We increased the speed of one our lines to roughly twice the usual, 'cuz we're all so fucking cool and shit, and once we start busting out that second line and start ripping out the bags like lightning, we're gonna see one of two things.

1. ChronicSmoker keels over dead on the spot, and the liquified nicotine and tar in his system begins to pool out of his ears onto the floor.
   
2. ChronicSmoker runs for the hills, leaving a trail of Zig-Zag wrappers and tobacco flakes gently flapping in his wake.
   

Either way, all we gotta do is call Express Personnel and have 'em send another zombie, hopefully someone who can actually lift 25 kilos (when we get the call, we are asked how much we can lift, and if this mojombo lied, he's paying the price now!)

Well, droogies, that's it for now!

Meet The Dog

Meet Duane Chapman, aka "The Dog". He runs Da Kine Bailbonds on Hawaii. He catches fucknobs who skip bail. Typically, they're dumbass gomers who do lots of drugs or steal shit, but they're especially stupid because they skip bail on an island. There isn't anywhere for these motherfuckers to run to.

The Dog is a badass motherfucker in his own right. I mean, lookit him. He's got the gun, the badge hanging around his neck a la bling bling, but most of all, he's got the mullet. That's right, dumbass crooks, this motherfucker is all business in the front, and if you see him comin' at you, that's it, cocksucker, game over. The Dog is all about business. If you see the backside, where the party's at, maybe you're safe. Maybe. Cuz The Dog's also gut some serious guns for arms, too. I bet he could bench press a mountain and still have room to twist some necks off.

The funny thing is, this badass, mean motherfucker who hunts down the badguys drops a prayer to The Big Man all the freakin' time. And he's got OCD when it comes to vacuuming the fucking carpet. No shit, he pulls the Hoover out all the time and sucks up the dirt. I got baaaad news for you, Dog, much like the blood on that guy's hands in that play by Shakespeare, the dirt on your soul will never go away.

Da Kine Bailbonds is a family affair, too. 's got one of his kids and his brother and I think a nephew or cousin or some shit, plus his wife. It's his wife who scares the living bejeezus out of me. She's all of five feet tall and has knockers the size of me. She says that just because she goes out to catch the bad guys (and she does!), it doesn't mean she can't wear make-up. And fake nails. The Dog's wife has those ultra-long nails coming off her fingertips that make me tremble every goddamned time I see them. The Dog might be, well, top dog, but his wife can make the tough motherfucker buckle.

The reason I watch this show is because it is fucking hilarious. The Dog knows all of the fucknobs in Hawaii. He is incredibly friendly, even after he has sprayed some hapless lolo up in his grill with some kind of concentrated pepper spray. He's offered to get skeezy skank H-addicts into rehab when said skeezy skank has gotten his entire crew into a fist fight with three houses worth of tough brah's looking for trouble. I think I even saw him cry once when he had to track some old guy who helped him get his start in the biz.

If it weren't for the mullet, I'd probably vote The Dog into office. For those of you who are interested, I am considering starting up a Canadian chapter of The Dog fanclub; with enough 'dogpoints' accrued through financial donations, you will receive your free powermullet wig with faux-tee!

Emoticons are NOT Always Necessary, Nor are Acronyms

We all know what emoticons are. We all know what acronyms are. And if you don't, well, you're either a hundred years old and are convinced that computers are the devil's handiwork or you're a fucking Luddite, in which case, I can bash you all I want. Fucking bluehaired Luddite. But I digress.

When they first came out, emoticons were the shit. They were the bomb. A semicolon and a parentheses was more than enough to tell your BBS geekoid buddies and your MSN precursor goonsquad that you were shedding a tear, either crocodilian or real (depending on the tone of the conversation) Now they are fucking everywhere. In every shape, and every form. They're animated. You can find blogs that have boobies and wangs, but no hoohoos. You can find demented little batdudes and who the fuck knows what else. They are now a plague, and gomers who are habitual posters are addicted to them. In a four word post you'll find dozens of smiley faces. I get it. You're happy. Possibly happy that you're medicated. Maybe you suffer from narcolepsy, and held your fingers on the paste function. Wake the fuck up. No one needs to be assaulted by such an endless parade of visual frippery.

The drones who use emoticons like they're Johnny Fucking Appleseed spreading appletrees across the land also use acronyms. Stuff like LMAO (laff my ass off) or ROTFLMAO (roll on the floor laffing my ass off) is pretty common. (I've even used 'em. Sometimes, it just fits.) You find shit like that on all the sites that now feature their very own chatrooms. But there's also KTCOOTN (Keep that crap out of this newsgroup) and YANETUT (You Are Not Expected To Understand This), which might sound like a new Deity but is actually an insult (Fear the dreaded Yanetut, for He Will Smite you with His Emoticon-Prong of Death!!! lmao! rotfl! :) :) ;) )

You know what I think? I think in another ten years, all the kiddies sucking on the electroteat of their plasma monitors won't be able to speak or read a normal language. Icons and acronyms are pervasive, they're r fucking mental memes that override your brain structure, until you're no longer able to even comprehend anything else. Our children will be permanently hooked up to the computer, endlessy churning out new and never before seen emoticons (maybe something with spam?) and hammering out pointlessly derivative acronyms (imagine hundreds of letters forming something as arcane as a quantum physics equation scrolling across your IM host in response to your question about a/s/l?). I imagine that one day, new symbolic acronyms will come into existence to say it all. FOR EXAMPLE: (symbolA= "ROFLMAOWTIME" + "DNPM") + (symbolB = "OMFG" / "FIGJAM") = (some inherently arcane concept that anyone over thirty couldn't possibly hope to understand, so why fucking bother?)

It'll happen motherfuckers, and if you've got kids now, make goddamned sure they now how to read something written in your natural language, even if it's only a fucking comic book. Otherwise, one morning, they're gonna starting clicking and squeaking at you.

Half ... Life ... 2 ...

Must ... play ... all ... night ...

It came out. There were no invading aliens, no cataclysm, no destruction that prevented the relase. Oh man.

Ohhh....Man.....

oh man.

But, to be honest with you, so far I've only seen some neato graphics and good resolution. Other than that, it's pretty similar to Far Cry and Doom 3.

Woot.

Oh man. (Hopefully some of you now have the image of me really enjoying this game. A lot.)

Why?

Why in the hell is this show funny? It's not. The only possible enjoyment anyone could derive from this show is the fact that there are people like this in the world, and that there are people who find it freakin' hilarious. If you've seen the show, you're probably like me: waiting to see the episode where Bobby Hill finally comes out of the closet to his cracker daddy. A close runner-up would be when Bill steals a bunch of guns and ammo from the military base and kills Hank so he can nail the luscious Peggy.

Now that would be awesome.

EvilMister Encounters a New Stink That Could Kill Anyone Else

After working with Mr. Stinky, I would have thought it impossible to come across an odor worse short of doing dead body detail for the cops. I mean, I work in a spice factory. Other than all the different scents comingling as one, it ain't all that bad. Kind of like what I imagine a spice bazaar in India would smell like. Not bad, and you get used to it.

Today, though, was something else. Today was clean up day, which involves washing the living shit out of every goddamned thing in the entire warehouse. I squished all day long. Now, this is a fair trade, because I was fucking sleepy this morning, and didn't have to move anything heavier than my ass up and down the stairs. (this is because I spent an embarrasing amount of time playing NFS : Underground 2 this weekend, and had a pain in the ass time of getting to sleep.)

The warehouse has a big ol' grate and trap combination set up to catch all the runoff, and a strainer to ensure that all the big chunks of stuff don't get into the drain where it'd be a sumbitch to unclog. Naturally, the trap catches all kinds of gunk, goop, and detritus.

Let me point out now that spice, in vast quantities, does not dissipate. It accretes. It accumulates. It does all of these things to the point where it no longer drains out into the plumbing; now it sits in stagnant water, mixing with other, equally pungent spices. Occasionally crap from the bottom of feet (dirt, cigarette buts, etc) get in there as well. A smart person will realize that spice, when dry, attains no odor other than it already posseses. Spices sitting in water, being attacked by microbial bugs in water, will begin to undergo a transformation.

What kind of transformation?

1. Odor. All that fucking crapcrud stinks to high fucking heaven. It honestly smells exactly like shit. I am not exaggerating. Not at all. It brought tears to my eyes and a reflexive action in my stomach.
2. Texture and Consistency. There are actually two. One is a vaguely alluvial, silt-like consistency that lurks at the bottom of the pile, with the occasional chunk of weirdly solid hybridized gunk harder the concrete. The other is a watery brown stain broken up with creepy bubbles of indeterminate color.
   

In short, I was sucking stuff up through a wetvac that looked, smelled and sloshed around in the bucket like shit. It was awful. I haven't puked since ChubbyMonk's stag party, and like Jerry Seinfeld, I am now shooting for a record. I almost lost my lunch, breakfast and previous evening's dinner. It was horrid.

And I am told it will get worse when we mix things like fish oil.

Damn I love my job.

EvilMister is a Video Game Whore

I admit it.

I'm a whore when it comes to video games. If I couldn't acquire my software through the usual methods, I'd probably wind up hooking on the corner to pay for my jones.

There are specific types of games I dig on the most, and they generally involve pitting armies against one another a la Command and Conquer General (which, by the way, scores ten out of ten on the Waste of Time Dial ... the many, many days I have lost to that game alone are uncountable.) You build your bases, you get your resources, you research technology, all of that. It's kind of like chess, except no chess piece I ever heard of before could lob nuclear missiles across the screen at you, killing all your (until that moment) happy little worker drones. You're lucky when the game designers add a 'random map' engine which will churn up endlessly demented maps so you can never really learn the lay of the land. Play on hard levels, and you'd better be one motherfuck of a military genius to come out on top. Try C&C Generals on Hard with 8 opponents and you'll see what I mean. Sadly, I spent so much time on this game that I gained ten pounds but gained the ability to delude myself into thinking I am, in fact, just what the Army needs.

I also like the FPS genre, which should come about as much a shock as when we finally heard that yes, Liberace was as queer as you can get without being two people. Y'know what I'm talking about; once, I was a furtive little gamer sweating it out in the middle of the night trying to find the BFG to take down some of the worst rendered monsters in history. The theory was simple: more monster all the time. That philosophy hasn't changed much. Only the technologies behind the games have changed; when some motherfucker is hunting you from behind, you can hear that cocksucker's footsteps. If the people designing the game are sufficiently warped, you can hear laughter, too, evil, maniacal, just wait till I get you, then I'm gonna fuckin' kill you laughter. I love that.

Games I avoid? The Sims. Not because they suck, but because I invest too much time in a person who isn't real. We all know about The Sims, and The Sims 2. You make a person, you make him like you (or not) and then you ... uh ... do ... y'know ... stuff. The guys I play are either so like me they'll skip work, stay awake for three days, drink all the beer, pass out, get into fights with roommates and have sex with anything walking. Or the dudes are so fucking excellent at their jobs that I begin to lose confidence in the me that is the real me. Wanna have fun? Play the original Sims. Cheat your ass off to get millions of bucks. Build your own house. Make a kiddie room with lots of toys. Lure some kids up there. Pause the game and take all the doors and windows. Eventually the kids will die and you'll have a haunted rumpus room. Or build a pool, trick your tiresome roommate in their and take away the ladders. Eventually the schmoe will drown.

What has exclusive playtime on the ol' PC right now? Need for Speed Underground 2. This game has taken over my life because it appeals to the very basic reason why I don't drive in real life; I like to drive as fast as can as often as I can. The last time I was behind the wheel of a car I was driving 120 in a 35 zone. My then girlfriend nearly had a bird. We certainly argued. My point was that my reflexes are far superior to the rest of the human race and any accident I am likely to get into will be their fault, and not mine. In this game, you get a car. Then you race the car for money. Depending on how well you do, you can get upgrades. For everything. All those cars you see in those magazines were the models for these. You can buy new speedometers, for fuck's sake. The hotter your car, the better known you become. The better known you become, the harder the races, the higher the purse, the better the car you can buy. It's a never ending cycle, and it has consumed me. The graphics are unreal, and although you can run into a car travelling 120 miles an hour, it won't get damaged. You also can't run over people, which detracts a little from the realism. But then again, if I was shooting for realism, by chubby ass would have wound up in prison within three seconds of getting behind a car.

This game will carry me through until the much promised, much delayed, covered in bullshit release date of Half-Life 2. (Which, if everything happens as I have foretold, will end when the Earth is invaded by real aliens. Some years from now, we will learn that Valve, embarassed at their shenanigans, engineered the invasion to push their release date back a few more years. The real story is just as fucked. This is just one article ... the release date was once scheduled for Sept 30th ... 2003!!!)

Oh yessss, EvilMister is a Video Game Whore, yessss he is.

EvilMister Learns a Sad Truth

The place where I work is currently in the process of making about 800 trillion pounds of this shit called surimi. (I shit you not ... we have to do a thousand batches of this stuff, and each 'batch' yields roughly three thousand kilos of product!) It's mostly sugar and polyphosphates, and this motherfucking stuff fills the air like goddamned snow. It gets everywhere. And since it's a sugar product, once it hits open skin, it sort of glues your fingers together, y'know, like when you use Krazy Glue. It also gets up in your beak and makes it feel like you got nosehairs hanging out everywhere.

The sad truth is that I will not, over time and continued exposure to this airborne crud, turn into the Kwisatz Haderach. I will not get the neat blue within blue eyes. I will not get to wear the awesome stillsuits. There will be no riding of massive worms through the vast desert-seas of surimi, and I most certainly won't be able to crack concrete foundations into dust. Nor, I suspect, will I 'get' to have a crazy-ass knife fight with a semi-clad Sting.

What I will get if I inhale enough of this crap is the mother of all nosebleeds, because the phosphate base will turn my beak into a schnozz that belongs on a habitual cocaine user.

Now, maybe it's unfair of me to try and corner the market on prophets, pariahs, and the supernatural, but come on, man! It's the fucking Kwisatz Haderach! I could be ruler of the fucking Universe.

Maybe when we switch over to something with garlic as an ingredient, I could arrange to get hit by lightning and turn into the Flash.

EvilMister Takes a Bullet

I started a new gig today, working in a spice distribution facility. This place has the tolerance of a Fort Knox when it comes to contaminants and shit like that. (What I wanna know if the place I work at is like this, why do we have an acceptable percentage of rat droppings and shit in our food?) Needless to say, this involves the wearing of a blue jumpsuit (one size too small), and a hairnet (which I still feel like I'm wearing, even though it's been over an hour and half).

I have a goatee/mutton (I don't look anything like the crazy mofos here, but take a look anyway) chop thing growing on my face, of which I am immensely proud. Those who know me will agree that my facial hair stylings border on the obsessive, involving a lot of careful trimming and thought on style. It changes from month to month, sometimes week by week, because a side effect of my evil powers is that the hair on my face grows like Killer Kudzu. I turn around and I have a full beard. It's neat-o.

I have two choices. I can either shave it off or wear a goofy beard-net. Normally, I'd opt for the beard net, but I gotta tell ya, after eight hours of a net on my head, I think I'd last all of fifteen seconds with one of those fucking things on my face. It'd drive me fucking apeshit and I'd drop one of the people I work with into one of the massively gigantic spice mixer things if they got on my wrong side.

There are also two reasons why I grow my beard. One is because I can, and I think it's neat-o. I amuse myself with the various shapes and styles I can carve into my face (so far the most interesting one was a spider crawling up my neck to engulf my face). The other is age. Not in the way you might think, though. People already think I am much younger than my actual years, and this is with the beard adding on a couple. I already act like a sex-starved 15 year old computer geek, and with a smooth shaved face, I suspect that I will look like one. It's hard enough getting people to take me serious as it is. Plus, a motherfucker's goatee is as precious to him as hair is to a woman; I've seen any number of women go into histrionics when their hair stylist goes a different direction with their style. I feel naked without my scruff. It's like Samson and his locks. Shave me bald, and all of a sudden, I lose the power to make people cower in their shoes and booties.

So tonight, before I lay my head down to dream the wicked dreams, your pal EvilMister will indeed take his trusty Mach 3 +12 vorpal slayer to his face and willingly render himself less terrible so he can continue to make money. (Being evil alone doesn't pay the bills. You'd be surprised how uncompromising Telus can be, even when threatend with a thousand years of terror and nightmares. I am evil, but even I can't win against bureaucracy.)

If I was in the Mafia or the Yakuza, I wouldn't have to put up with this shit.

Reality TV, Thy Name is FOX

Holy Shit. I've just seen another sign of the Apocalypse. Not of the world's souls, but of it's IQ.

PT Barnum once said, "There's a sucker born every minute." FOX Tv has gone out of their way to prove this, and prove it with a vengeance. The show? My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss. The premise? Simple. It's a total rip-off of The Apprentice, starring the Donald.

Now if you're suckers for FOX programming like I am, you've already witnessed the first Big Fat Obnoxious tripe that stank up the airwaves last year, only that time, it was all about a fiance. This shit is better. They have an actor playing a billionaire. Except he's a total fuckwad. He says nasty shit to people, confuses the fuck out of them and generally makes a dick of himself every time he's on camera. He starts off by asking every single woman on the show what their love life is like. I think it's gonna get worse, though.

In the first episode, it's men (CONCAD Inc) VS. women (Femron), and the contests are seriously messed up. CONCAD (an admixture of con meaning grifter and cad meaning asshole) and Femron (a take on Enron) have to panhandle. Yeah, you read it right. Six girls who had the psychic foresight to wear tight shirts and short shorts and six doods who wore sweatpants and shirts. Of course the chicks won, because they said they were from a cheerleader camp. That might sound sexist, but if EvilMister had a nice rack and pretty legs, I'd be hustlin' shit all day long. If I could tear myself from the mirror long enough.

As each contest has a prize, so it has a booby prize. The guys, who lost by a few bucks (seriously) had to sleep out of doors in hobotown. You think that might suck, but the women got to sleep in the penthouse, with their matresses stuffed with cash. Funnily enough, the women slept worse. Who'd of thunk that sleepin' on a pile o' dough would suck so much.

At the end of each show, the losers have to haul their sorry asses up to the boardroom, where they get a new one torn into them by the maniacal leader of a fake company (Iocor, which is latin for joker). He tears into them, calling them losers and all manner of things. Then he tells the gang boss to pick two people, and then the spitballing starts. The two uber-losers try and hustle their way out of getting shitcanned on the first day, but there's something they don't know, and it ain't that their 'boss' is an actor.

The ass sitting on the other side of the desk? He's not the guy who chooses who gets let loose. (It's a big secret that won't be revealed until the end of the show.) But he is the guy who gets to make up some utterly bullshit reason why the poor sadsack gets his ass turfed. The first schmoe got told he was too short, and that short people pretty much suck in high finance, that tall people rock. The other guy (he was Asian, and for a really bad moment, I thought FOX might've lost their nut altogether) got told he was wearing too expensive a suit. This guy got fired for dressing fancy.

How fucking awesome is that?

I'm a billionaire. I told you I hate suits, and you're wearing the most expensive one in the room! Get the hell out of my office!

That is a direct quote. This show is my new hero. 12 people, all of them supposedly top-of-the-line market managers, salespeople, and financial analysts, getting fucked raw by an actor, and all for the chance to work for a nonexistent billion dollar company. I assume along the way we'll see at least one of them descend into the lower depths of Hell to win. Oh, and at least one hookup, 'cuz some of these women are tasty.

P.T. Barnum might've known that there's a sucker born every minute, but only FOX could find twelve of them, convince them they could make millions, and then have them drink Ripple and think it was champagne. These fuckers should be working the long con in Vegas, not programming television shows.

HAH! Reality TV, thy name is FOX.

The Flavor Blue?? What The Hell?

I am a self described gourmand (I eat almost everything I come across. Foreign foods? HAH! Parts of chicken that are used for walking? Double HAH! I am unafraid to try anything once. Sometimes I need to be told after what it is I've shoved down my gullet, but so far, so good.)

Food and I have an agreement. I like it, it likes me. And so the cycle of life continues, with me, sitting at the top, bag of Doritos in hand. (Doritos, you might now know, are the end result of millions of years of evolution. The doritus mammalia can be found all over the world, usually in small grocery stores, next to natcho giganticus.)

I gotta know, though, when blue became a flavor. Last I checked, blue was a color. You know what a color is, dontcha? I could go on and say that Webster's defines color as ... blah fuckity blah. I could even go on to explain that the colors we see are acutally refractions of light reacting to everything that everything is made out of, but I won't. We made it through the womb, and voila! We know what colors are.

Blue is not a food, nor is it a taste. I am marginally aware that there is both an 'orange' fruit and an 'orange' color. Notice I do not mention 'orange flavored drink' availabe at McDonald's. It is an aberration.

If we run around saying that blue is a flavor, I can guarantee you Ford will come out with 'Car', and that Hollywood will make 'Movie'. Then it'll spread to other foods, and strawberries will become 'red', or possibly 'red with seeds outside'.

Don't mistake me, here, people. I've had blue lemonade from Kool-Aid. It's tasty. But if you'll notice, it's actually called blue moon berry. There's also bubble gum flavored slurpees, and blueberry tasting popsicles. These are acceptable, people, because they are based on real tastes.

As far as I know, there is nothing in the world that simply tastes like blue. Blue has no taste. Since this is true, (it is because I say so) there is no possible way that I saw an ad for gum with 'extreme blue flavor'. It was an hallucination, and I am now taking donations to get my visual hallucinations back in line with the auditory ones.

There is no way that I saw it.

Things I need to Practice

As a volunteer for my local police department, there are a few things that I need to work on if I want to remain being a volunteer. Now, since it's been only one day, you might wonder if I've already had a 'conversation' with someone who is the boss of me.

Not yet. No, these are merely some things that I've noticed about myself that might not ... fit in ... with the 'community' perspectus of appropriate behavior.

We all know that I am opinionated and that I like to make fun of people. Sometimes in front of them, but most of the time behind their backs, which is far more appropriate. It's generally not as fun to laugh at someone when they're right there. The urge to mock people is one that should be surpressed while working in the station. Also, the practicing of sarcasm, on account of the fact that I've remembered that for some reason, some people just don't 'get' sarcasm. My feeling on a person's lack of 'getting sarcasm' is in direct proportion to their overall intelligence. (Nutjob didn't get sarcasm at all, and was continually asking me if I was serious. I am very rarely serious, and when I am, it's serious like people dying. You will know when I'm taking the piss, and when I'm not.)

We also all know that I am incredibly single, and that this could easily be read as 'hormonally hyperactive'. Fine. So what. A result of this ... development ... is that I generally tend to be more ... friendly ... to women. All right, fine. I flirt. I flirt my ass off. If flirting was a fucking Olympic event, they'd have to invent a medal better than gold, because I am one flirtatious motherfucker. It'd have to be, like, an admantium medallion or some shit. It's not like I come on strong or anything, I don't take out MiniEvilMister and waggle him across the countertop, but we all know what's going on. Flirting with women who come to pick up subpoenas are not fair targets. Even if they are incredibly hot. Also, and this is far more important, is being even mildly flirtatious with female volunteers. It's covered quite clearly in the handbook I received. Also too, I have very firsthand knowledge of what happens when two people at work hook up. (For awhile, the sex is possibly the most amazing kind of sex in the universe next to make-up sex and going-away-on-a-trip sex, but then when something goes wrong, it spills out into work and then it's revolvers at ten paces. It always ends in tears. Just not mine.)

So that's it. EvilMister must learn to quell his natural instincts, even if he knows he'd get away with it. Why is this? Because my chances of eventually becoming a real cop increase exponentially the longer I volunteer, and I think being a cop would be real damned cool. (While I advocate hitting Big Brother and the Government where it hurts whenever possible, any fucking gomer who breaks the law and then gets caught deserves to go to jail. There're all kinds of motherfuckers who don't get caught. Look at Dubya. He's President, and he's a crook.)

The Memory Hole...

Or, Why the US Government wishes It's Constituents Couldn't Read.

Welcome to the Memory Hole, a place where you can find all the shit (I assume ... it's a pretty big site) that the US government wishes they'd never printed and shouldn't have printed. The people who maintain the site also put up a bunch of declassified stuff, like a big list of the questions put to Feds while hooked up to a polygraph machine.

Other stuff that you can find there?

1. "Rezedents Rights & Rispansabilities" - a document that is, at the same time, one of the fucking funniest things I've ever read and one of the most embrassing; this is a pamphlet that was sent out to people!
2. All kinds of government forms, used by the different departments. You never know when you're gonna need to bust out a FD-294 on someone's ass.
3. All the techno-stuff you knew the government has been sitting on for the last 50 years, revealed at long last. Sadly, there are no blueprints for hovercars and broadcast energy, but it's just more proof that the people in power don't want us to know anything.

Since I've known for a long damned time that the US government (they're not the only ones, just the only group stupid enough to let this kind of shit get declassified. If more people knew how to use a computer, there'd be no end of trouble.), I ain't all that fucking surprised. It's inneresting, though.

EvilMister's First Day as a Fake Cop Is Tomorrow

Well, the headline pretty much sums up my day tomorrow. My hopes are that I will:

1. Be invited for a ridealong, where I will be able to prove that all the years of playing video games has, in fact, given me the power to shoot perps, skells, and other badguys dead with a single shot. This is important, because I have never shot a gun. Other than the blue one that I use when I play "House of the Dead 2". I kick ass at that game.
   
2. Be invited for a ridealong, where me and the other cops in the car will instead go to a stipjoint, where I will be given free lap dances because I "am one of the boys". Following the stripjoint, me and the fellas will shake up the neighborhood with many John Woo ninja-style gunfights, resulting in my being given the Key to The City.
   
3. I will at long last be able to hack into the ever-mysterious, ever-present "permanent record" and find out for sure what my Grade 9 Latin teacher really said about the time he threw a desk at me. (He really, really did. And then he gave me some peanut M&M's)
4. Run around saying, "Excuse me, sir/miss, but I have just one more question for you. I don't mean to bother you, it's just that this whole case has been going around in my mind. Do you mind if I ask you one more question?". And then, when I ask that question, I will be able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the person is the murderer, and I will change my name to Columbo.
   
5. Bust some mad caps in some fool punks who be steppin' up to me, yo!

These can really happen. They really, really can. And if things go the way I want them to, all of them will take place. Also, on account of the fact that I am sleepy and can hardly think anymore, this will be both a linkless and pictureless post.

Klingon Language Institute? What the fuck?

All right, I admit, I've known about this for a long time, but today just seemed appropriate to air my views on the entire Klingon to English phenomenon, indeed, the entire Trekkie affair. The above logo is an actual link to a place where geeks can learn how to speak Klingonese. And I thought I was weird.

I mean, I'm a geek. I watch the Sci-Fi channel. I watch Star Trek: Original, The Next Generation and DS:9 (I'm not gonna admit I watched even a single episode of Voyager, so go screw.) I know a fair amount about the shows, the mythology, and even I have been guilty of busting out a Kirk impression once or twice when the Aldeberaan Whiskey has flowed freely. Shit, I've even played some of the FPS games that've come out. Come on, it's a blast, running around shooting people with phasers. I admit this freely, and with the full expectation that someone somewhere will make as much fun of me as I have of them.

But when weirdoes unite and form an entire language for a species that has not and will not ever exist is completely beyond me. When people have Klingon weddings, walk around talking Klingon to one another and pretend that they are, in fact, a Klingon themselves, they forfeit all rights and privileges accorded the rest of Humanity. They open themselves up for the ridicule of a nation, especially when they cover themselves in latex and head for the nearest TrekSciCon. (The only people who're cool at these events are the hot chicks who dress up like Seven of Nine).

It ain't right. It just ... ain't ... right. I don't give a rat's ass if it's a community of like-minded individuals who have finally, at last, found a niche in the world where they are comfortable, where they can be themselves. If you wanna do it, do in your house or some equally sanctioned place where "normal" people can avoid you. You don't see me walking around in a velour jumpsuit calling myself Mr. Suave, do you? Then why in the hell should I have to put up with some guy who is an island unto himself humping around the mall calling himself Korr?? (Admittedly, I've not ever run across this, but I am taking poetic licence. There are places where this does happen. Some people even where their captain's uniform to work.)

I swear to Christ that if I ever see a Klingon on a day that ain't Halloween, I will for sure drop a Captain Kirk double-fisted Kung Fu move on their asses. I will then, of course, move over to the Klingon chick and have some nasty, violent Klingon nookie. (Have you seen those Klingon babes in the show? If I was a Klingon, which I ain't, I'd never leave home. Seriously.)

Lemme Tell Ya About The Time .... #3

or, EvilMister Couldn't Save The World If He Tried

EvilMister is not above a little ... skullduggery ... in an effort to make ... friends with women. Now, this sounds much worse than it really is, but I am willing to put in a little extra effort. With that in mind, let me tell you about Ashtanga Yoga, and the evil it represents. Okay? All right.

There was a girl I worked with who was into yoga. I was into the girl. I'm not even going to discuss with you the numerous and plentiful warning triggers sound whenever I start dating, or trying to date, someone I work with. I assure you that those stories will be covered when I'm certain that the women involved are either dead or out of the country. This particular girl was, and I am sure still is, incredibly sweet natured. Just the sort of thing a crank cantankerous moody SOB like myself needs to keep from stabbing people in the neck. She suggested that I come to yoga with her, and me, being the fool I am, said 'uhuh'.

Why is Ashtanga Yoga evil? What, for example, makes it so different than the others? Well, besides my not really knowing about different yogic paths, I can tell you what Ashtanga Yoga involves.

• You are in a room. This room is hot. Hot enough to melt fingernails and make you seriously consider moving to Alaska. If Eskimos came into this room unprepared, they would turn into puddles of icewater.
• There is no way for the heat to escape this room. Someone, somewhere, had devised a room to keep great escape artists from escaping and turned it instead into a meditational chamber. When you start to exercise, there is no where for the additional heat to go.
• Because it is, literally, an airtight room, there is also nowhere for the stink to go. An Ashtanga room smells much like I imagine a musk ox would reek after a really good what-the-fuck-ever a musk ox does for exercise.

With that out of the way, I now move on to the fact that it's co-ed. Ordinarily, this ain't a problem for me. I mean, people are people, right? You gotta run into the opposite sex sometime sooner or later, right? EvilMister is not ashamed of his body, not by any stretch of the imagination (especially since he's lost 45lbs in the last five months) but still, I don't subject my oddly shaped body to unsuspecting people, even if they don't stop right there, shriek loudly and pass out. (I mean, come on, I'm chubby, I know it, I and I alone can make fun of myself). It took a major effort to pretend I wasn't wearing a pair of shorts and a tight shirt that, sadly, informed everyone I should be wearing a manzeer.

So there I am, trying to a) impress the girl I like with how amazingly awesome and willing I am to try new things, b) trying to not look like an out-of-shape porn star who is literally sweating his life away and c) trying to be more bendy.

Yoga instructors might not look like Drill Instructors for the Marines, but they are. Ohhhhh, they are. Even in the beginner's class, they rifle through their commands like Gunnery Sergeant Hartman bawling out Private Pyle. If you don't know what any of the various positions are, you're s'posed to, y'know, follow along with the rest of the class, only a few seconds behind so's you can see the pose. But all these motherfuckers do all day long is drink wheatgrass and practice bending.

To a guy who's spent his entire adolescent and adult playing video games and eating potato chips, even the most basic move is reminiscent of Marquis de Sade's favorite torture/sex devices. And while EvilMister is into weird shit, sweating that much and posing like that without someone directly involved other than someone who's the younger cousin of Gumby and ten feet away from me is a little much.

I learned two very important things during my time with Yoga. One is that I am about as flexible as spaghetti. They say flexibility increases with time and patience. I'm sure it does. But I am a man with little patience, and even less time in a room full of stinky sweaty, moaning people who aren't naked and violating at least three Commandments. The second is that I am a person who couldn't balance to save the planet.

The aliens from ID4 could show up tomorrow, point all their big guns at the planet, and demand to see me. After some hilarity involving a cross country chase, some FBI agents, several timely explosions and at least one hot sex scene with me and Kristin Kreuk, I would be taken before these aliens, at which point I would be told the following;

"If you balance for ten seconds on one foot, your planet will be spared, and you will be a hero to them. If you fail, the world shall be destroyed and you will be thrown out the nearest space lock."

Let me tell you something.

If that happens, we're all doomed, DOOMED I say. Half the time I can barely balance on two feet. It's a miracle I don't fall over walking down the street. And that's why I don't 'do' yoga.

What happened to the girl? Well, I met her boyfriend, and in an extremely uncharacteristic burst of bonhomie, I backed off from the front lines and went a different direction. I think my doing so pissed her right the fuck off, 'cuz she doesn't talk to me anymore. I'll never learn.

The Lesser of Two Evils Still Ain't That Great

Well, kiddies, it's the day before the great elections in the US. The two primary candidates, as if we haven't been inundated by merciless anti-campaigns, are George W. Bush and John Kerry. I don't think I could tell you the names of their running mates if my life depended on it, and, with the state of political affairs worldwide, it might very well be.

Neither one of them are that great, to be honest with you. George likes to bomb the hell out of anyone who's got what he wants, and John is pretty damned hard to understand if you start trying to make sense of what he's saying. You think you got it, and then all of a sudden he's double-back like some kind of political Gordian knot. Brutal.

Many people think that the choice is obvious, that Kerry will be a better leader than Bush, if for no reason than he's not Bush. Ordinarily, I'd agree, especially since we've already had two of the Bushes in office. I know what my choice would be if I cared enough to exert my right to vote (EvilMister has, through a quirk of fate and a mother who went to Woodstock, dual citizenship), but let's consider something.

John Kerry went to Vietnam and did that thing. Who's to say that it didn't fuck him right up? Lots of people came back from that police action with a noodle full of nightmares. Didn't we cover this kind of thing in The Manchurian Candidate? I mean, we know Bush is a nutcase, and if you watch his debates and speeches, it really looks like he'd rather be at Yuk-Yuk's doing stand-up. So what if Kerry doesn't have the stones to get the troops out of Iraq and that situation falters. Or worse, what if his head is buzzing like a bonnet full of bees, and we don't find out until he goes apeshit one night ... Other than that one concern, Kerry's my man, 'cuz his daughters are sexy. Plus, EvilMister has a lie detector built into his brain, and once you sift past all the rhetorical bullshit and obligatory grandstanding, Kerry seems like a guy genuinely interested in helping his country out of the deep hole they dug.

Bush is a man driven by non-political desires, and has allegiances to people and ideals that, even in a political system as desperately in need of an overhaul as the US adhere to, simply should not be there. Any intelligent thinking person (I know I just lost at least 3/4 of the population) has seen Farenheit 9/11. And if you haven't, and you think you're entitled to an opinion about this electoral race, do yourself a favor and check it out. Download it, rent it, do what the fuck ever. It doesn't take a genius to realize that Michael Moore slanted his take on the Bush Administration, but that was poetic licence, in order to make his point that much more apparent. Bush is not a president for the people. He isn't. He is a mouthpiece, a puppet for his Poppa and guys who're on an entirely different wavelength. He has, as far as I can tell, no real concerns about his own backyard, looking instead to turn the U.S. of A into the superpower it once was.

I got news for you, Bush, the superpowers don't exist the way they once did, and if you get back into office, sooner or later, someone is gonna get tired of having the spastic kid on the block kicking sand into everyone's faces.

Don't Kill Me, John Gotti.

What in the fuck is this shit? Why the fuck is this on the air? Who gives a shit? I mean, if they're not gonna whack some goombah or give some fucker an Italian Neck-Tie, I really don't wanna see it. The entire English speaking Italian community (and those fuckers who have people explain this shit to them) must be freaking out. Every single Italian on this show is a walking fucking stereotype for 'wop'. The kids, oh christ, the kids. There's Carmine, Frankie and Johnnie. Tree good Italian kids.

Dumber than stumps. I mean, you leave a stump alone, it might maybe grow back into a tree.

Not these kids. They are morons. I cannot believe Victoria hasn't put a hit out on 'em. I would. Shit, I bet the Pope on his Throne in Vatican City is just waiting for the chance to get one of his Holy Ninja Assassins out to drop some seriously terminal penance on their asses. I don't wanna even talk about the one kid's unhealthy fascination with hair gel. It's inhuman. One of the other fucktards sounds like that mumbly motherfucker from 'Fat Albert'. The other one is straight up looking to have his head slapped around for just general fucktardidness.

It's only saving grace is that, unlike other 'reality' shows, Growing Up Gotti is only half an hour long. Any longer than that and we could probably track the dwindling IQ of the nation via satellite. Do us all a favor, and yourself too, Victoria Gotti, and drop a dime on your kids. You're still in child-bearing years, drop another litter and keep 'em away from the capos and consiglieres. You'll find yourself better off.