Fat cats and asshats

This guy at work is being a total dick. He just swaggered over to our engineering group and he tries to nonchalantly start a conversation about how smart and great he is.

"I hope you guys didn't have any money in the stock market."

Of course we all did.

He smugly continues. "I'm not one for playing the market much, but this situation was entirely predictable."

Concentrating angrily on our computer screens and refusing to look at his self-satisfied, gloating face, the rest of us just nod wordlessly in acknowledgement.

"Yup yup yup," he continues to preen. "I got out three months ago."

Nobody says anything.

"Entirrrrrrrely predictable."

Then he saunters away without receiving a single reply from anyone in our group. What an asshat.

One step ahead.

It's always sad when I make a joke that is so witty and intelligent that it goes RIGHT over the head of my intended audience. I suppose my humor is too high-brow for the proletariat. Today I went to Nordstrom because I wanted a new pair of khaki pants. My body having the cartoonish proportions that it does, I of course need to have all my pants tailored. The tailor, awkwardly gripping my firm buttocks in her wrinkled hands, shook her head and said "Tsk, tsk."

Connor: What is it?
Fanny McPhee: Is this really the smallest waist size we have?
Connor: Yes. (Tries to swat her hand off my ass... unsuccessfully)
Fanny McPhee: What do you think about them?
Connor: They still look too big on me.
Fanny McPhee: We can take them in a bit, but not too much. Maybe you'll grow into them.
(She looks up at me, eyes narrowing.)
Fanny McPhee: How old are you?
Connor: Twenty-seven.
(This answer seems to satisfy her.)
Fanny McPhee: You still have time to fill out. My son used to be just your size. Not anymore though. They used to call him 'Stick'.
Connor: Now he's more like a 'Branch'?
(Internally, I am quite pleased at my witty wordplay. This was a funny comment! I seek approval from Mrs. Touchy Tailor. She cocks her head at me, confused.)
Fanny McPhee: 'Stick'. (Holds up a vertical finger as if I am a retard. Tries to mime a stick.) You know? Thin like a stick.
(There is an awkward pause consisting of unblinking eye contact.)
Connor: I must not have understood that initially.

Elaborate build-up, followed by disappointment (that's what she said?)

"Oh, why hello there Mr. President. I didn’t see you there in the corner. Yes, I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking. The project? Operation Rainbow is proceeding on schedule. That’s right, I’ve managed to overcome all the substantial technical hurdles. Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am aware of my prodigious intellect but I appreciate the compliment nonetheless.       

What’s that you say? You’re worried about the tree-huggers finding out about Operation Rainbow and raising objections? What could they object to?! All we’ve done is create a hybrid puma/rhinocerous, fed it nothing but human blood, then equip it with a 100kW laser and strap it to a rocket. Why would anyone object if we unleash an Abomination Unto the Lord against our enemies? Oh, poppycock. I think they’ll be proud of the scientific hurdles that we’ve blindly cleared to accomplish this goal.        

Well, I suppose you can always contact me if you have further concerns. But please not on Tuesday evenings. That’s when I karaoke. Hmm? Oh, you need a business card? Why of course. I would be happy to present you with this elegant symbol of my professionalism."

Head Over Hell

I have an important personal issue that I must vent to the internet, where it is sure to attract the attention it deserves. There are some quality radio stations here in Seattle, but only a few have funny morning DJs and play good music. To be honest, there are really only two and one of them is 101.5 KPLZ.

Every morning they have a special "7 at 7" segment where the DJs build a short seven-song playlist that they broadcast at 7am. Typically, I'm already at work by that time, but maybe once a week or so I get it a little later at like 7:15.

Here's the problem: every SINGLE time I've heard this playlist, they will ALWAYS include the Tears for Fears classic hit, "Head Over Heels". This used to be a great song. If I were writing a teenager "coming-of-age" movie about growing up in the early 90s (where John Cusack plays myself), "Head Over Heels" would definitely be on the soundtrack. But it's one of those awesome songs that you can only hear once a year for it to retain that special feeling. And this DJ has ruined it! For whatever reason, he keeps throwing it into his "7 at 7" playlist every week.

I was emotionally unprepared for a previously-loved mid-80s pop song to get overplayed. I'm getting to work now with feelings of unresolved rage and anxiety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMBbJ_l0Tb4

Like a Boss.

Now that I'm working at The Company, I've decided to step up my game a bit in the clothing department. I don't want to brag, but basically I make the cover models on GQ look like dirty hobos. Is this a bus, Jake Gyllenhaal? Because I just took you to school! Yesterday, I wore a nice pair of slacks and a dress shirt that I purchased at Nordstroms. Admiring my reflection in a pool of water, I realized that I required more of these outfits. I was crushed to find that the store had just recently been ravaged by a two week sale, and no longer had a full supply of shirts.

Sales Rep: We sent all our remaining inventory to the Nordstrom Rack.
Me: The what?
Sales Rep: The Nordstrom Rack. It's just around the corner.
Me: What is this "Nordstrom Rack" that you speak of?
Sales Rep: It's our clearance store.
Me: (aghast) Ew.

But desperate to flush out my wardrobe, I went to "the Rack" anyways. Once there, I was shocked to discover that my outfit seemed very similar to the apparel worn by the help. Apparently, other patrons felt the same way. A guy with a gelled fo-hawk and a gold chain asked me, "Hey, do you have any Hugo Boss socks here?" I was confused about why he was talking to me, because I wasn't wearing a gold chain and their kind tend to stick together. "Oh," he said, realization dawning on his face. "Sorry, I thought you worked here."

Two thoughts flashed through my mind in that instant. First, why would someone be looking EXPLICITLY for Hugo Boss socks? That seems weirdly specific. And the second thought was that Hugo Boss socks sounded amazing. What was so special about them?! I needed a pair.

No. I needed EVERY pair.

My eyes narrowed at Gold-Chain Douchebag. "Stay the fuck away from the Hugo Boss socks," I growled in a low voice. Douchbag backed up a step. "You hear me?!" I continued, a crazed look in my wild eyes. "They're mine! You're in MY HOUSE BITCH!"

59%: The Best Get Better

Does life get more exciting than this?! Probably not YOUR life!

Reach for the sky!

Oh sweet zombie Jesus, it's time for Performance Evaluations again! Being a new employee at a company, it's important to set realistic goals that also demonstrate your commitment and dedication to the new position. Here are a few examples from the performance goals I set for myself.

1. Limit wine consumption in office to one glass per day, and at least attempt to disguise it.
2. Develop office nickname. Preferred: ConnMan, C-Dawg, "Big Junk". Acceptable Alternative: Snowflake
3. Read two Lolcats per day, minimum.
4. Email hilarious partially nude photo of self to engineering group to promote interoffice camaraderie.
5. Have at least one person refer to me as a "snappy" dresser.
6. Show that bitch lunch lady in the cafeteria who's REALLY the boss.
7. Figure out if I have developed "Tyler Durden" alter ego. If confirmed, attempt to limit fatalities on company property.
8. Exude confidence and raw masculine sexuality.

Accidental Creepster...

There’s a cute girl who sits in a block of cubicles on the other side of the big engineering bay where I work. Believe me, this is a rarity in The Company (apparently). At the very least, I would be content making a friend and having someone to talk to when work gets slow.

I had the perfect, convenient excuse to introduce myself to her. The employees in my bay are organized into clusters of six cubicles each. I refer to them as “cube farms.” As it happens, I had to ask a work question from one of the people in her farm. So I could pop over there with valid work business, and quickly worm my way into her heart.

We have an IM client at work that displays an employee’s status. That way, people can see if you’re at your desk, or in a meeting, or on travel. So I planned to use that for it’s (kind of) intended function, and just check if she was there before I go ask my question. What I DIDN’T know was that the IM client will notify the person if you add them as a friend on your buddy list. So I threw her name into my list, saw she was there, and started walking over to ask my question.

I’m just around the corner when I hear her ask “Who is this Connor Dolan?!” in a puzzled exclamation to her other cube farmers.

So then I ran away.

Of course, the worst part is that I still have to ask the other person in her cube farm my work question. But I don’t want to introduce myself to him if they think I’m a random creepster! *Sigh.* All I wanted was a friend, and instead I’m going to end up with a restraining order…

Spoilerz Alert

Don't read this post if you don't want to know anything about the Twilight series. I'm serious. Just stop reading my intoxicating words now and come back some other day.

I am not fucking around. This post is going to reveal some heavy plot stuff and you probably don't want to have it spoiled.

I'm trying to create lots of line breaks here to push the main content off the page, but you're running out of time.

Still here? You've made the right choice. Not like those others.

I'm proud of you. You know what my grandfather struggled to whisper to me while he was dying from liver failure and the entire family begged him to give up the bottle?

"God hates a quitter."

So read on, my fellow dedicated souls! Drink deeply from the mouth of my 90 Proof blog-a-bottle.


Ok, have you noticed that pretty much NOTHING happens in the entire first half of Breaking Dawn (I'm bored and re-reading it)? All that they do is have weird sex and then get knocked up. All of that takes up as much space as the first Twilight book. I could write most of the plot in just one paragraph:

Bella: Oh you're so impossibly handsome! You have marble skin. I'm going to refer to you as being "marble" a lot.
Edward: You're kind of a dumbass. Like, mentally not that bright.
Jacob: I love youuuu, Bella!
Bella: I love you too!
Jacob: REALLY?!!
Bella: Hahaha dummy! Not really!
Jacob: Wha--Why not? Edward's kind of an asshole. Like seriously, he lies to you all the time and stalks you. How do you not have serious trust issues?
Edward: Don't listen to that wolf dude. Let's have violent sex, where I rough you up a bit. My semen-venom also somehow doesn't hurt you because we both waited until we were married.
Bella: I am rewarded for my sexual inexperience with a creepy, blood-drinking baby now.
Edward: I'm going to try and abort the child without your consent, because I'm such a good male figure.
Jacob: I hate ur baby.
(Bella has baby.)
Jacob: I love ur baby.

Office Antics

So I just ate my lunch and afterward I was feeling kind of cold (I always feel colder after eating, for some reason). Anyways, I was sitting in my chair and I started rubbing my hands together to try and get blood flowing to my fingers. But I accidentally rubbed my palms together too hard and they made a little farting sound. I immediately froze and then carefully looked around. Everyone in my little cube farm had also kind of frozen, but were avoiding looking at me. They totally thought I let one rip.

What's my next move at this point? Declare that I'm not an office farter? Say nothing and let the rumors spread? Maybe blame it on the dude next to me.

Blog entry? Check!

I like to set goals for myself. Not because I’m an over-achiever, but because I like to check items off a “to-do” list and make the little check mark symbol in the air. “Daily bowel movement? Check!” This has not made me popular in the men’s room stalls.

One of my personal goals is to become a regular at the wine bar across the street from my place. To that end, I have been forcing myself to go eat dinner there twice a week. I want the bartenders/hostesses/owners there to know my name and what kind of drink I prefer. I also want them to cheer “Connor!” when I walk through the doors and possibly give me a hug. That’s reasonable.

Sadly, there is a problem with my amazing plan: I don’t know how to say the name of the wine bar, and enough time has gone by that I feel weird asking. The name is “Brix” but is this pronounced like “Bricks” or “Bree”? The only solution I can come up with is to get hammered, pass out and conveniently tumble off my barstool, then “come to” and pretend to be disoriented as I ask “Where am I?” Then wait expectantly for someone to answer my question.

Tactful solution to a trivial problem? Check!

Marina

Dawn of the Browning

Alexis

Momma Bird will miss it, but Baby Bird's gotta fly.

Helping hands

There is a lumbering giant of a man in my building who always walks half a step behind me. I feel his presence constantly looming over my shoulder in hallways. His ragged breath is hot on my neck as I leave a conference room. I cringe when he gets so close that I catch a waft of his distinctive odor (smells like cats)... And he's ALWAYS that close. I feel like Mr. Close Walker wants me to walk faster, and I don't know why he won't just walk around me.

The worst part is when we reach an entrance. Since I'm half a step in front, I will start to open the door. But THEN, Mr. Close Walker will reach forward and grab the door frame... AS I AM IN THE PROCESS OF OPENING IT... and open it as well. So his hand is over my shoulder, and it's almost like he's assisting me in opening the door.

This is one of the worst violations of personal space ever. If it keeps happening, I'm going to go insane and fling myself off the Space Needle.

Trash bash.

I have a major problem with the janitorial staff at The Company. They only empty our bins... ONCE A WEEK! Please take a moment to allow the gravity of this statement to fully mature in your mind. Let it stew for a bit. Then come to the conclusion, as I have, that this is unacceptable!!

I frequently buy a lunch from the cafeteria right across the street and will eat it back at my desk. When I first began working here, I would blissfully toss my used plate in the garbage pail when I was done. But after a few days, I noticed the can was becoming full. Bits of food scraps were turning strange colors. A mysterious odor wafted through the air, and my coworkers grew nervous as packs of wild coyotes drew closer to our group with each passing day. I grew panicked and began to wonder if I had done something wrong.

Was it possible that I had to "activate" my garbage pail to have the janitors empty it? Had I offended the cleaning staff with my charm, good looks, and wild success? "Maybe they just missed my pail for the past three days", I reassured myself. "Surely they'll empty it tomorrow!"

Nope! The next day, the garbage was still full! And it wasn't emptied until I came in to work on Monday morning. So what was the real reason behind this travesty? The janitors (if you can believe this) are unionized and not minorities. Up here in Washington, all they have are Asians and white people. And Native Americans that turn into wolves or some bullsh*t like that. So ship them all up here, Arizona! Load up your huddled masses of shivering, unwanted souls on a bus and drop them off at Home Depots conveniently located across the state!

I'm so clever. I should be a politician.

Who's ready for safe fun?!

I came down with a bit of a fever this weekend. Yellow fever! Yes, I spent the entire holiday weekend with some of my new Asian friends. The fun began on Saturday, when I went to a rooftop shrimp fest in downtown Seattle. The weather was perfect, the booze flowed freely, and I got to sample some new cuisine. You see, part of the shrimp fest was to eat Live Shrimp. It's like sushi... but way more hardcore.

You start with regular shrimp. They're alive and overjoyed at getting to travel new places, like the Seattle fish market! Then they're unceremoniously dumped into a bowl of icy seawater, which paralyzes them. Finally the shrimp come face to face with a ravenous Asian (or drunken white boy), and they are devoured. You break off their head and peel off the shell, dip them quickly in a citrus, soy sauce, and wasabi mixture, and down the hatch it goes! Seriously. This is what I did. It's kind of badass.

Of course, I had to prep myself with a little tequila. Then a lot of tequila. The night ended with me passed out face down in a kitchen downtown, with a bathrobe draped over my body.

Then I rallied for the Fourth of July, which took place at an Asian party by a local lake. Let me just say that Asian people have TOTALLY different concepts of personal safety when it comes to children playing with fireworks! Firstly, Washington State has sick fireworks because all the Indian reservations sell the super illegal stuff. So all the Asian parents were handing kids these insane bottle rockets and what looked (and sounded) like tiny grenades, which they would jam into bottles, tiki torches, aluminum cans, or whatever they could find, light it off and just pray it didn't veer back towards the lakehouse or spray shrapnel.

And as my final example of the stringent safety requirements, I seriously witnessed this conversation:

Kid: Mine didn't go off!
Adult: That a dud. It no good.
(Kid starts to toss the dud in a garbage can near the food)
Adult: What you doing?! That not safe!
Kid: Where do I put it?
Adult: Toss it in campfire.

My eyes are up here.

The hallway in my building is freezing. Not just chilly or slightly uncomfortable. It is stupidly frigid! I am thin and have no protective layer of fat, also known as "Man-blubber" or "mlubber". Herein lies my problem.

Every time I wander into the hallway for a bathroom break, refill my water bottle, or just to deal with my emotions, I develop a bit of a "nip problem". Then when I come back into my work bay, I'm very self-conscious. So of course, I have to walk around with my hands over my nipples and staring down anyone who challenges me... Like a silver-back gorilla.

The solution? Discreet and elegant.

Gastro-intestinal vengeance

This weekend, I hung out with a bunch of my new "younger" friends. We pre-gamed at my fantastic apartment and then ventured out to bars. As we stood in the throngs of people at Tiki Bob's, I made a comment about how I thought a lot of the girls in Kirkland were cute.

This one guy, who was already quite inebriated, looked surprised and then surveyed the ladies as if he were just noticing them. After a moment of drunken contemplation, he blurted:

"Yeah, I guess they're alright if you're-- Like, at your stage in life."

It was such a shockingly condescending evaluation that he delivered so deadpan and casually. I wanted to stab him with my tiny tiki drink stirrer.

But instead, I played it cool and offered to buy the next round of drinks. I got everyone in the group a Southern Comfort and lime... except for the Condescending Asshole. For him, I decided to order something a little special.

Me: What's the worst shot ever?
Bartender: The worst?
Me: Yes, I want a shot that you get somebody you hate.
Bartender: Get an Abortion.
Me: What is it?
Bartender: Irish Cream, Peach Schnapps, and grenadine. You'll gag on it.
Me: One of those, please.

Then later when Condescending Asshole puked in the bushes outside the bar (seriously happened), I innocently asked "Oh, is he not feeling well?"

In my younger and more vulnerable years...

I have a work notebook where I track all my projects and important items. I'm very proud of it because I keep it well organized and have neat handwriting. I can't wait for the day my child gleefully brings their first report card home from school and asks to hang it on the refrigerator, so I can gently tell them:

"No, that's where Daddy dispays his first Boeing work notebook."

then snatch the report card from their delicate, quivering hands and tear it up in front of them as punishment.

Even though I started at "The Company" in May, I didn't get "The Notebook" and make my first entry until June 7th. I was so eager to once again become a cog in a soulless corporate machine, that I used insane, over-the-top "industry speak" to record simple ideas.

For example, I needed to find out how my manager was going to assign me new tasks and projects.

Simple concept.

But this idea was logged into my notebook as "Touch base w/ Leo to establish procedures for assignments and path forward."

What?! That doesn't even make sense! Haha, oh June 6th Connor. You were so eager to impress. So young and naive. How times have changed! I look back at myself in those days and realize what a cold, bitter man I have become.

58%

This post title references the percentage of awesomeness that I am. A.k.a. my winning record in Microsoft Hearts. I want to get this number up to 66%. You want to talk about dedication? It took me about 2 months to get from 57% to 58%. What comes to mind when you think of the word "accomplishment"? Getting engaged? Slaving endless hours to get that promotion? Starting a homeless shelter?

Pathetic. I've played almost a thousand games of Hearts and won 526 of them. Suck on that, boners.