Homemade Firewood

There are no leaves this Autumn.
We stole them all
and burned them for heat.
Every hour on the hour
until precious maple
, and birch,
could be loaded for the slow dark burn.

A letter to Martha Stewart (Holiday)

Dear Martha Stewart (Holiday),

I was pleased as usual with your latest Halloween installment. If I had any artistic talent at all, your ideas would have been über cool. Instead, I'm going to smash, like, 40 pumpkins on my deck and tell kids that I was attacked by hobgoblins. What a terrible waste of food in a world of such unbalanced prosperity.

Yours in uncertainty,

Morton Milton, Esq.

Isaac is gone.

Isaac is gone. I know I promised to fill you in on Carl's meeting, but that sordid affair is long in the telling if you'll allow the saying, and I've a mind to fill you in on something of more import (I've also been using Lord of the Rings as my toilet reader). I'm sitting in the lunch room at the tail-end of break, waiting for a chance to get outside without making a fuss, and reliving the entire incident in brooding silence. Again, Carl was at the forefront, filling in the high school staff with the gory details of the firing while Shawn (our Night Shift Supervisor) escorted Isaac off the premises. Shawn had done all the talking during the closed-door dismissal, Carl was the first to admit in his thin, whiny voice. "I just couldn't bear to do it! I couldn't look him in the eye and take away his paychecks! He's got to live just like the rest of us!" Carl never cried, but he wailed a lot. There weren't many teachers around at 10:00 pm, so Carl pretty much had the building to himself. We were his captive audience.

There was a dramatic pause. "I fought against it (another pause). But there were just too many complaints coming from the school board. Isaac and me and that Phil Norton had a meeting and he just let right in to poor Isaac about his high dusting! He called him lazy, an-and stupid, and he pointed out so many mistakes that Isaac was making. It was just awful! Just AWFUL!"
By now, Shawn had returned. "Come on, Carl, let's go grab a Tim's."

He lead Carl away and almost at once the chatter began. Suspicion of everything from dusty chalkboard ledges to petty theft lays on Isaac's once spotless reputation. Some of the cleaners mistrusted his spiritual approach to work, but he was otherwise well-liked until now. Faced with the real possibility that they could be fired at anytime without warning, they clung to the faint hope that Isaac had earned the termination. Otherwise, we really were at mercy to the whims of Carl.

Isaac knew this was coming. He had insisted I stop by his closet for 5:30 break, where he relayed his suspicions of a coming showdown with Carl. "Carl's wanted me gone from the time he showed up. I've actually been preparing for it. I have money saved in a high interest savings account (huh?), all the fresh food in the house is gone, bills are paid in full and set for long-term disconnect. All that was left was to show you my cart."

And there it was again, sleek and black, a janitor cart like no other. It seemed prepared for any custodial disaster, and yet retained an air of elegance. Accessible compartments for Scotch pads, wash rags, toilet paper, paper towel, liquid soap dispenser, refill bottles and three sizes of garbage bags lined the sides, although a panel door slid closed to keep it all hidden when not in use. The top tray was outlined with bottle holders to house his super quat, degreaser, window cleaner and one clear substance in an unmarked bottle. It smelled faintly of ammonia. A larger holder was saved for his rag and water bucket. His broom, pan and dustmop stood proudly upright, snapped into their holders. On the other side, the top of his snapped-in mop handle disappeared into the cart. Another swinging panel door revealed the bottom half of the mop resting easily in a matching black bucket.

"I want you to have it, Morton. It's my own cart, not the company's. I think you'll find that it gets the job - any job - done well."

"I don't know what to say, Isaac. Thanks, I guess. Are you sure about this? What's going on?" I guess I did know what to say.

"I'll be escorted out. When you get a chance, meet me at my truck."

How did he know? I'm still sitting in the lunch room agonizing over the riddle when I notice that most of the staff have returned to their misery, so I excuse myself from the lunch room. I leave Gail and Kristine to arguing over who is crazier: Isaac or Carl. Sure enough, Isaac waits for me in his truck. It's a beat up '89 Dodge Ram, but the engine purrs. Some old time jazz wafts tinnily from his stereo toward me as I approach. "Duke Ellington?" I guess.
"Today is a Dizzy day, Mort. I've another gift for you." He kills the ignition, steps out and thrusts the keys into my hands.

Too much.

"Listen ... Isaac ..."

"It's too late to refuse, Mort. the truck is in your name and the insurance is paid for 6 months. You've been pining for a half-ton. Pine no more. I won't need it where I'm going."
"Where are you going?" I have to ask. Ivan just chuckles. He would have told me already, I suppose. The urge to tell him the truth comes suddenly. There won't be another chance and he deserves to know, even if he doesn't believe me.

"Isaac, I know this sounds cracked, but here goes. Sometimes I wake up and instead of it being tomorrow, it's days, weeks, even months later. I'm skipping forward in time and I don't know why."

Isaac clasps me paternally on the shoulder. "I know." he almost whispers, and his grip loses its substance. He slowly dematerializes, his eyes smiling at me until he fades to nothing and I am left holding his keys.

How did he know?

Death to Stick Man Comics

My stick man comic is totally edgy. Not only is it poorly drawn, but the humour is low brow and mildly offensive. It has almost no redeeming qualities. I challenge you to create a more pathetic comic without breaking the law or leaving it blank.

"Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist's way of scribbling 'Kilroy was here' on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass." - William Faulkner

Afghanistan speed history

If you think your country had it bad, there's one that's got you beat:
Afghanistan's a land that's had a lion share of heat.
First were those crazy Aryans, till Persia came around,
They hung out till Alexander and his army came to town.

Alexander was just passing through, but his Hellenists set up shop;
Buddhists tried to gain some ground, but the Hellenists made them stop.
The Kushans, Sassanids and Huns I s'pose deserve their due,
But then we'd have to stop and talk about all the warlords too.

During our middle ages, though, the Afghans did alright,
Some impressive Muslim kingdoms, whose brilliance parred their might.
But Ghengis Khan had plans to conquer all the world one day
And as before, I know you're sure, Afghanistan was on the way.

The next 500 years are marked by muddied Mughal rule,
A couple civil wars or so, all centred in Kabul.
And so Zaman Shah Durrani found himself in charge of all,
When up showed British redcoats armed with lots of guns and gall.

It took a century for the Afghans to drive the British out,
And even now it's hard to wash the taste out of their mouths.
A king or two named Shah took charge and made the Afghans glad,
Till the commies offed their family and things went from good to bad.

We're almost to the present day in case you didn't know,
When Bin Laden joined the Mujahideen to make the commies go.
And Jimmy Carter gave the Mujahideen the proverbial Yankee buck,
And anyway, by '89, the commies were totally fucked.

Inside the vacuum of yet another ideological collapse,
The warlords starting warlording in a familiar relapse.
Finally, the Taliban gained control of sufficient land
To proclaim themselves the sovereigns of the whole Afghanistan.

But where once a Muslim kingdom made poverty quickly flee,
The Taliban were Koran thumpers to the zillionth degree.
They covered up their women and threw progress to the wind,
And protected ol' Bin Laden as a hero, lord and kin.

So to no one's real surprise or awe, the Yankees came in waves
To catch Bin Laden alive or dead, but he fled to the mountain caves.
And so quite by accident it seems, the Yankees were in charge,
But too few soldiers stayed behind in a country much too large.

While the Afghans held elections and became a democracy for real,
The Taliban regrouped and started fighting back with zeal.
And now the Afghans fight each other and fight foreigners as well,
It's a close approximation if you've never been to Hell.

That's where we'll leave off for now, this history with speed.
I do hope you can appreciate the Afghan's present need.
About the same as yesterday, just different names and guns
and all those fucking land mines ...

Listen up. A quick scratch on Joseph of Arimathaea

People of earth: listen up. I think you've got the wrong impression here. I am not in love with my new job. I'm still the same fucked-up Morton. Yeah, I wrote a poem about mopping. Big whoopty woo bob! I'm missing pieces of time here, people! Do you have any idea how terrifying that is?!? Also, Diane still won't give me back my jacket and I'm a fucking grave-yard shift janitor! What else could possibly happen? Have you ever dared existence to kick you when you're down? Me neither.

Isaac, Jon and Carl aren't the only cleaners I work with. You should see this fucking guy named Ron. He claims to be hosting the spirit of Joseph of Arimathaea. That just blew me away when he first told me. Man. Maaaaaannnnnnnnn. You know, I looked into his eyes and saw absolute belief. Just for kicks, I've read the Wikipedia article and plan on testing his knowledge of Joseph next shift. He comes out and watches us smoke dope behind the bleachers sometimes. I figure being outrageously baked is the perfect setting.

Joseph of Arimathaea, as you may know, was obsessed with making sure Jesus had a proper burial, fit for a man of high stature. He was a man of some importance himself and ipso facto was revealing himself as a follower of Jesus. Yes, Wikipedia says that. My line of questioning will follow that vein. Should be a humdinging good time, yeah!

Carl's meeting in the lunch room was entertaining for all the wrong reasons, but I'll get into that later. I'm going outside to stand in an open field and see if I can't get struck by lightning. Ok, you're right. I'm actually going to get high.

Peace,

Morton

Mop Mop Mop

Swimming lazily on the hallway gleam,
The fresh wax hurls my sneakers in mod;
My damp mop a magic, pivoting rod,
Balanced and swirling in a sanitized dream.

Swish. Swish. Swish. My mop glides over the freshly waxed tile so freely. The subtle flicks of my wrists, feet and hips remind me of dancing. Suddenly I back into my bucket. Stop. Dip. Squeeze. Kick the bucket further down the hall. A bad wheel causes it to veer into the lockers with a loud Bang! and water splashes over the sides. No damage. Swish. Swish. Swish. I'm rather pleased with my hall mopping method. Everyone has their own and mine is particularly satisfying. Isaac would not teach me how to mop a hall. He said I had to find my own way. When I have a good bucket that I'm used to (someone stole mine last week), I can kick it down the hall the correct distance to ensure an even rinse (there's no describing the sense of accomplishment. It is the blue-collar equivalent of wastepaper basketball). I've compensated today my kicking the bucket a bit harder to cause it to veer and crash in that vicinity. Admittedly, kicking a bucket of water into lockers has its own rewards.

Carl has called a meeting during first break. Although this will be my first one, I've been informed by several lifers that this has become an almost weekly occurrence, and furthermore, that each one is more bizarre than the last. "Flaming Hitler" Jon named him recently. Even Isaac laughed at that one, and he doesn't seem the type to go for jokes about national socialism and homosexuals. Jon's wit is infectious. And his dope is killer, man. Fucking killer. Whoever said custodial work is boring had the wrong boss and coworkers. Gun nut Billy would fit right in here. Shit, I wonder how ol' Billy is doing? Maybe I'll look him up later. For now, though, Swish. Swish. Swish.

The Iranian crisis and the scuff mark trick

Isaac never ceases to amaze me with his breadth of knowledge. He seems to be a dabbler in all facets of existence, but to what end I do not know. Today he is discussing the current Iranian crisis (how many have their been in all of history, I wonder?), when he suddenly stoops in front of a scuff mark. "Black soles are a real bitch, but if you did your waxing properly, they are pretty easy to clean."

Isaac whips out a gold-painted metal pocket scraper and with a deft sweep of his arm, peels the scuff mark away from the wax. The entire mark comes up as one impossibly thin sliver of rubber, which Isaac casually tosses in the garbage can. The wax is flawless where he scraped. "You know, some cleaners actually use a floor buffer to do that. Imagine grinding at a harmless little scuff mark for 2 minutes and ruining your wax because you were too lazy to bend over."

"Not to mention that you had to haul the buffer out of the closet." I chime in.

Isaac turns and points at me. "Good point."

Back to Iran. "Right, so where was I?" mutters Isaac, eyes fixed on the ceiling in intense recollection as we stroll down the corridoor.

"You were saying that the Iranians aren't as nuts as everyone thinks they are."

"Right, right, right. You see, they captured British sailors instead of Americans. That wasn't just happenstance. The capture's got nothing to do with who crossed whose water lines. The Iranians are making a clear diplomatic statement, and they are making it to the Americans, don't you know? Kind of like a rival slaps your buddy in the face instead of you: clearly offensive, but not quite confrontational enough to make you want to strike back just yet, and your friend, smaller and weaker than you, waits for you to make the first move. The Iranians are saying 'We are still here. This problem isn't going away. We know you can't afford to fight us right now. We want something in exchange for peace.'"

I'm not convinced. "but what if they aren't that sophisticated? What about that whole multiple governments and multiple chains of command thing the Iranians have going on? What if this capture of British soldiers is just the work of some religious nutjobs who just like poking the West with a stick to see what we'll do?"

"I'm not sure I buy the whole multiple government thing. We'd like to think that the order might have come from some fractured lower level and not Ayatollah Kohmeini himself, but that's just wishful thinking. He at least gave his blessing to this escalation with the understanding that Americans were not to be involved. Structures of power always lead back to one individual. You know one of the State's top naval officers publicly stated that if the Iranians had tried that stunt on one of his crews, they would have opened fire? No one in the White House is denying that bold statement; in the crazy universe of diplomacy, no denial is the same as a confirmation of policy. The States in very clear terms have just said to the Iranians, 'You do that to me, and I'll hit back.' That's war! Diplomacy is over. There'd be air strikes on Tehran right now!

"No, Iran knows what it is doing and there is relative consensus in its highest levels of government. It knows that the British are a conservative nation when it comes to an escalating crisis. There is no chivalry, just calculation and patience and diplomacy until some bitter end forces itself onto the table. It also knows that the States is now being led by men who are just the opposite: rash, stupid and short-sighted. That's sophisticated understanding of the way the world works right now in this political climate. It might be a dangerous game to play with the Americans, but it's a game they can win!"

"Shit Isaac, then what does Iran want that makes it play this dangerous game?"

Isaac just smiles. "Well, this is where we separate. I want you to know that I don't begrudge you getting the shop wing section. Carl is doing this on purpose to turn us against each other. He is a vindictive and manipulating man, and he has reason to hate me especially."

He cuts me off before I can ask. "Another time, Mort. I'm on a tight schedule right now!" And Isaac is marching away, whistling some thoughtless tune as he disappears around the next corner.

A poem about how it feels to get hit in the head with a foam bat

Kah-Thwiff! and Boing! and Sproing! and Ploof!
Your swings only hurt my feelings.
And even then, not very much.

...

...

...

Just what were you hoping to accomplish, anyway?

The Art of Waxing

I'm not sure whether I want to tell Isaac the truth or not. He seems just wavy-gravy enough to take it well, like the old dude on the bus. I don't know if you remember him from a previous post (all two of you), but the old dude, besides telling me never to work for a contractor (guilty on two counts now, I'm afraid), also urged me to enjoy my trips a bit more. For him, experience was quality in and of itself. A lout might ask if getting kicked in the nuts is quality. To you, I say, read the My New Superpower post. I remember Isaac's speech about teenagers, and the similarities strike me. The old dude didn't wish his fate on others and so gave advice freely, drawing from past mistakes. Isaac shared his teenager avoidance manoeuvres when we first met. He too didn't want me to suffer as he had. So, I'm standing here watching Isaac teach me the subtleties of floor waxing, and his enthusiasm and perfectionism are a true sight to behold. I'm pretty sure he'd have no problem with it at all.

“Waxing a brand new floor is the best, of course, because you get it right the first time. But man, there is just something about restoring a beat up ol' floor and making it look like new. It's a true test of skill and imagination, you know?. No floor is the same to begin with, but you throw in a decade or two of different janitors using different techniques, all of them flawed, and sometimes you have a real challenge there. It's almost like antique restoration: patience and subtleness. You can't just strip the floor bare and start on naked tile! You'll get two days of shine and it'll go duller than PBS. The floor'll never be the same. Never.”

All of this while he waxes, happily enough, a brand new classroom tile floor. We are in our sock feet and Isaac is cool enough to let me help him despite my inexperience. Just enough wax on the broom, smooth, even strokes that leave a uniform coat that dries almost instantly. Rather than throw on one sloppy coat of wax, we will leave perhaps 7-10 thin ones on top of 3 similar coats of tile sealer. His monologue has left me calm and confident. I find myself admiring the transformation of the floor. Brilliant. I will say this: I am not willing to swallow Isaac's janitorial art thesis just yet, but I'll let him spoonfeed me some.

But is he cool enough to let me keep waxing if I suddenly say “You know Isaac, this might shock you quite a bit, but sometimes I accidentally travel through time. I just wanted to warn you in advance in case it happens again. You might have to finish my half of the classroom.”

Maybe some other time.

By the way, I just wanted to let you know that Diane died a few weeks ago. At least she's dead to me. Do you hear that Diane? You are DEAD TO ME! You know why, don't make me repeat it to my loyal readers! And I want my watch back. Enough of your twisted head games, just give me the watch and this whole sordid affair will be over!.

Mosaic Image Generator

I did this all by myself. It took 2 years to complete. Actually, I'm lying. You probably already know that I lie pathologically. It actually took 2 minutes and besides uploading the picture, I really had little to do with it.



Thanks to http://imagemosaicgenerator.click42.com/ for letting us all be pretentious artists.

Click the picture for a close-up.

A glimpse of the surprisingly sophisticated.

"Janitorial work is a hidden art form."

So says Isaac, my one day trainer. The ability to restore any three-dimensional space to its original pristine form takes years of training, but for now I will learn to master the high school dimension. "There are two important things to remember when cleaning a high school." says Issac. "Number one is that it is a large two-story building with numerous hallways and sections." One of those sections will be mine, and by the end of today I must find the available section that was meant for me.

"Some cleaners even like cleaning bathrooms the most. They enjoy the simplicity and repetition. Me, though," Issac points to his chest "I embrace the dynamics of a varied section. The difficulty level is stimulating and time goes faster. The shop wing would be perfect, but Ronnie has had that sewn up for years."

"The second thing to remember when cleaning a high school is that for six of the ten business hours in a day, the entire school is crawling with teenagers. They are dirty and unpredictable psychopaths who think adults are assholes." Issac has offered his full compliment of stealth techniques and avoidance manoeuvres. Aren't those the same thing, come to think of it? His best manoeuvre is staring at the floor when walking the halls, only looking up when the coast is clear. Funny, I used the very same trick when I was a student here. Maybe that glaring lack of self-confidence is the reason I've returned as a custodian ten years later? No. No. No. I'm forgetting the whole temporal issue. I can't burn bridges with decent employers. I'll have to be certain that I won't go falling into next month again before looking for a real job.

But still, amongst these dangers, I will bring health and cleanliness to these hallowed halls, this piece of modern art with its concrete and steel and central air. In the end, I don't actually choose my section as Issac has promised (actually, he rather aureately divined that the section would choose me). Carl returns, appearing suddenly around the next corner. He faces us, clipboard in hand, and with an offsetting half-smile asks "Do you mind doing me a favour, Morton?"

Turns out, they need a man to clean the shop wing. "I'm sorry Morton," Carl explains as he rushes me to the shop wing, "but Ronnie called in sick and none of the girls like doing this wing at night."

Issac's lesson was more spiritual than practical in the small amount of time he had to train me. I last saw him entering his closet. I caught a glimpse of neatly stacked cleaning agents and a surprisingly sophisticated janitorial cart. There appeared to be extra compartments for holding various tools and the entire cart was painted a monolithic black. I expect I'll get a closer glimpse at this cart in the future. Carl shows me where Ronnie's closet is, takes me on a whirlwind tour of the section, and we stop just outside the closet.

"You've cleaned before right?"

I know for a fact that I've told Carl before "Not very much at all, no professional experience," but right now, it's time to make a good decision, "Yeah, definitely."

"Great!" exclaims Carl, giving me a pat on the back and handing me the keys. As a parting shot, he yells back to me as he's scurrying away, "You know, I think this is the section for you. I think we'll keep you here permanently!"

What about Ronnie?

Elvis in 2004

Elvis Presley is a red-blooded American with a pure spirit, an honest disposition, and a generous heart. He has entertained millions with his beautiful voice, given courage to all with his rise to stardom from destitute poverty, and made us all feel safe and secure as a member of our mighty armed forces at the height of the cold war! Entertainer, warrior, brave and honorable, Elvis possesses every quality you have ever wanted in a president and more! In 2004, don't waste your vote on that dimbulb George W. Bush, and don't throw away your ballot on whatever born loser the democrats choose. Vote 4 Elvis, because he loves each and everyone of you!

Watching the superbowl and making instant and final decisions on certain things I observe, as is the style at the time.

Jim Nance is mentally disabled and Phil Simms is smart but wrong most of the time.

Dan Marino is secretly hoping Manning goes down in history with him as the greatest QBs never to win a superbowl. He no doubt volunteered to be the talking head that talked to Manning's talking head to "psyche him out."

As Hester returns the opening kickoff for a TD, I am suddenly thinking, Didn't Ohio State do the same thing to Florida? Who won that game, anyway?

At half time, it's still anybody's game, meaning that the Colts are going to win. Like every other playoff game, they have stopped the run, won the possession-time battle and the Bears D looks spent. The Pats D, older and way more banged up, had Tom Brady to keep them in the game. Rex Grossman is not Tom Brady. I'm not even sure Rex Grossman is an NFL QB.

I've never liked Prince, and I still don't like Prince, but his superbowl halftime show was way above par. then again, par is so despicably low...

Ok, I'm back and now its the 4th quarter (I fell asleep because the game got real boring) and I have two thoughts at the same time: Rex Grossman is just outtasite awful. He's actually worse than I thought he would be. The other thought is that the real superbowl happened two weeks ago when Brady and Manning slugged it out in one of the all time classic AFC championship matches. It all came down, literally, to Brady completing one pass to the venerable Troy Brown for a critical first down. Brown cut left when Brady thought he was going to cut right. The Patriots had to punt, Manning marched the Colts down the field and fulfilled his destiny, yadda yadda yadda.

Anyway, another boring superbowl that started with a bang and ended with me falling asleep before the game ended. Will Manning be in twice as many ads next year? One can only hope. His dumb "Aw Shucks" smile is nauseatingly comforting.

Carl - My Operations Manager

Carl's first order of business is to assure me that I am in no danger of sexual harassment, at least not on his part. It goes without saying that this scares the bejesus out of me, but since he's 92 lbs soaking wet (most of which is contained within his poofy hair, causing him to sway awkwardly when he stands in a breeze), I figure I'll be ok unless he approaches me from behind (pun intended).

His lips are red and squishy, and they purse and quiver in fear when he isn't talking. His eyes dart nervously around the classroom and I think I detect the faintest hint of shaky knees. Even when his voice raises in pitch and amplitude to a decidedly maternal and unbearable squawk (a common enough occurrence, especially during his lectures on the proper methods of spray buffing), I get the distinct impression that Carl is living life in constant and absolute fear. Whether this fear is present on a purely subconscious level or closer to the surface whilst remaining too terrifying to speak of openly, I cannot say.

I snap back to attention, suddenly aware that Carl is waving his finger around, accusing former custodians of deeds that led to their dismissal. "If there's one thing I will not stand for, it's SWEARING!!! Especially when a woman turns the air blue with that filth. It's so degrading to hear that come out of her mouth. Don't you think so?" I take the diplomatic high road. "It's pretty bad when a man swears too." I evenly respond. Carl smiles at me and reveals a gold tooth. "Then we understand each other. I see big things for you here, son. Stick with me and you'll do just fine." He claps me on the shoulder, spins on his heel and marches out of the room.

Later, I'm standing outside puffing on a joint that Jon from B-Wing invited me to share with him. "So ... what's Carl's story?" I carefully ask. Jon spits before taking the joint back. He takes a tremendous haul before answering. "Carl's a fucking lunatic: that's his story."

Off to Work

Yes, dear readers, Morton has a new job! It was difficult to find a position that was compatible with my temporal fluxes, but in all truthiness, I haven't suffered a jump in many months, and the entire episodic nightmare seems to have passed. That being said, I cannot commit myself to any sort of career where lives might be at stake, where others will depend on me, nor where I might find a semblance of happiness only to wake up one morning and discover that I was fired three weeks ago.

A high-school janitor graveyard shift seems a perfect fit. My supervisor is a spastic and wrinkly man named Carl, with permed hair and knobbly knees poking out from under his white company shorts. More on Carl later. To celebrate, I have created this minimalist laser-light portrait using MS Paint. Your welcome.

Evil Inverted #23-b - The Cult of Personality Revealed

Another piece from my Silly Period. Back in 1996, I was convinced that these guys were the evilest men in the world. For dramatic and spooky effect, I inverted their colors.

Freeeeaaaaaaky!

More filler for aesthetic purposes. My Dungeons & Dragons Elf Fighter/Thief was killed last night in an unfortunate encounter with a 13th level Goblin Mage. Finger of Death?!? Grrrrr... if my comrades manage to raise me from the dead next turn, you're in big trouble, pal! I needed to roll a 14 or higher on my d20 for save vs. spells. Alas, even my cloak of protection wasn't enough to tip the balance.

All but 254 were happy

Created before 9/11/01, if that makes you feel better. It doesn't? Well good. You should feel terrible about the state of the world every single second of every single day forever and ever. There's nothing like self-loathing and pessimism to bring about positive change in the world, jackass.


The following text is simply filler so as to balance the text with the image. This may or may not be a commentary on the state of mass media. God save the Queen.

The Postmodern Diddy

You say the world's past all epochs?
That the past can't be understood?
Maybe language is nothing but idioms,
And there's no such thing as good?

While you pace smugly in your tweed jacket,
Waving your book around like an ass
We call that "tootin' yer own horn" in my English,
Required reading in your own class?

For real? Your own fucking class? What a douche you've become!!!

But when I saw you last at Woodstock,
And the leather was more than a patch, A whole coat, even!
And we ate those sunshine blotters
Was it then that your idea was hatched?

Cause I made some flippant comments,
About the death of modern man.
I think I ridiculed Andy Warhol,
And his paintings of tin cans.

But it was all just drug-infused rantings,
I never declared hegemony dead!
And what the fuck does meta-history,
Have to do with what I said?

So don't forget this man,
Postmodernism was just a joke.
You were only supposed to laugh,
And pass along that toke.

A Poem posted from Linux SUSE

Linux is rad! Linux is cool! Linux will soon be found in our schools!

All of my so call friends used to say, till I tried out this system

and then shot them all dead.

Haikus from the 400 series (and a limerick or two)

The wind must be drunk
Blowing all over the place
Bumping into me.

Al Gore grew a beard
To hide his eternal shame
Then he wrote a book.

Can you spare a ten?
Listerine sale at Shopper's
See you at the wharf.

God created Earth
Then he went on vacation
And never came back.

Transmission trouble
I have blamed my mechanic
But he blames my car.

My pants are dark blue
They cost me 30 dollars
They were sewn by slaves.

The calls did not end
They kept coming and coming
At midnight I cried.

Calling tech support
While I munch on slim jims
And crack my knuckles.

Stare at horizon
To rest my weary eyeballs
Screen flickers badly.

Free cable was grand
Till they caught me - Now I'm mad!
Commence venting - stat!

So much tart candy
I feel my lips puckering
Like old people lips.

Sharks swim very fast
Unfortunately, I can't
The Water is red.

There was this guy on the phone with a lisp
Who declared "ComCath sucth, you thupid bith!"
Then he slammed down the phone
And left the CSR all alone
To laugh at his physical disability

I tripped over the phone cord and into next week,
My girlfriend believes that I'm only a freak
My doctor's blue pills
Are always a thrill
The colors they cause when I'm taking a leak

Why? Let me tell you a story about Why

Why? Let me tell you a story about Why.

One day in the 1930s, a dude named Satre was having an espresso at some fancy-pants Paris cafe and was asking himself the same question.

"Why? Why am I here?"

Hearing no answer, Satre made a brilliant deduction. God does not exist. Then he wrote several long and boring philosophical tomes that said exactly the same thing in a more convoluted form. The following is an excerpt from one of his less coherent chapters:

Nah, just kidding. I wouldn't do that to you.

Natch,

Morton

If you are reading this email, then I am dead (or more likely fired)

Sent to the entire FuStar staff just minutes before being escorted off the site.

Dear Friends and colleagues,

If you are reading this email, then it can only mean that I have received my progressive discipline coaching ticket of termination (or whatever inane and innocuous term they use for "You're Fired!" around here). Either that, or I have flipped the bird to some low-level executive or two and walked out the front door. Believe me, that in either case, it is the best career move that I have ever made.

In anticipation of this momentous occasion, I have prepared this email in advance and stored it in my drafts folder, where it has waited for the perfect time to be sent to all of you. Apparently, that time is now. If for some reason I sent this by mistake and I am actually still employed here, well ...

I wanted to share this invaluable piece of wisdom that some old dude I met on the bus once shared with me. He said, "Son, don't ever work for a contractor. They will work you to the bone, pay you crappy wages and dump you when you're no longer useful. Your boss will be an idiot or a jerk, and usually both. Worst of all, you will work for two employers instead of one. The owner will want your blood, and the contractor will be there to bleed you dry. Take it from an old fart like me, don't work for a contractor." Now, I'm pretty sure he was talking about the construction industry, but I think you see what I'm getting at.

Whatever I did to get canned, I'm sure I had it coming. I take no issue with that at all. But something I have always taken issue with, and doubly so after working here, is the plight of the New Brunswick worker and the infestation of call centers over our employment landscape.
Those of you who have experienced the horror (or maybe relief?) of a sudden center-wide closure understand how fleeting these monstrosities can be. They are only here in the first place because our government subsidizes our wages and hands out lucrative tax breaks. We are cheap, expendable labour in a business that requires no special skills and minimal training (which our province also usually pays for). If a better deal from some other desperate province or country comes along, the call centre can pick up and move, leaving its workforce behind, at a much lower price than a more traditional business could.

To make matters worse, the so-called golden age of New Brunswick Call Centers has ended. Corporations have discovered that it is not only cheaper to manufacture goods in third world sweatshops, but also to export their customer service overseas as well. Despite FuStar's admirable intentions that it will try to open centres in locations that need the jobs (i.e., our town in the wake of the SMI fiasco), it is only a matter of time before FuStar will have no choice but to operate out of India and the Phillipines exclusively or go out of business entirely.

If the call center was but one part of a larger strategy of job creation, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. If the money we poured into revamping our telecommunications and IT infrastructure in the 1990s had led to more than just these customer service sweatshops, then maybe New Brunswick wouldn't be one of the backwaters of Canada that it is today. Our population is actually dwindling, while our health care and public education consistently get low grades when compared to the rest of the nation.

We should be ashamed that we must bribe companies to come here and set up shop, herding hundreds and thousands of desperate workers into low-paying and unrewarding jobs. Our own governent actually advertises our high unemployment rate because it keeps turnover rates low (or so the theory goes)!

What will New Brunswick look like in ten years? Deserted. Deserted, but with really excellent high-speed internet access. One small reward for tens of millions of tax dollars poured into the vacuum of corporate bribery. Once again, we will be out of work and willing to take any job that will keep a roof over our heads and our children fed, no matter how meaningless, low-paying or degrading the work may seem. When this inevitable desertion occurs and when the next economic rebuilding project begins, I can only pray that we do things differently. It will be our responsibility, as personal witnesses to this drudgery, to ensure that it never happens again.

Take care of yourselves, everyone. As much as I hated it here at times, it has been a real pleasure getting to know many of you. Thanks to your friendship, I have as many good memories of this place as I do bad. I will keep you in my thoughts. Feel free to drop me a line and let me know how you're doing.

Kindest Regards,

Morton.

Escalation Ticket of Termination

My loyal readers,

Today, my services for both ComCast and FuStar Teleserives Inc. are no longer required. It is a sad end to a sad job.

Was there any dignity to the whole process at all, you ask?

Kent, my Floor Supervisor (FSU - the "U" stands for "FuStar University Alumnus") approached me and let me finish my call, before catching my eye, noting that I was in After Call Work (ACW), and saying with practiced sterness and humility, "Morton, I have a couple tickets for you to sign."

The first ticket (by which I mean an Intranet form that requires my and my FSU's electronic signatures to verify) was a coaching session for proper use of account adjustment codes. Apparently, I had incorrectly coded a credit for the technician being late on a repair visit, when he was really doing an upgrade (replacing a regular digital box for a DVR). The amount was correct, just not the code.

I will remember to use the proper adjustment codes when making adjustments to an account.

The second ticket was a written warning concerning my schedule compliance.

I will comply with my schedule by taking my breaks at the scheduled time for the day, and by not going over my allowed breaktime.

The third ticket was a one-day suspension for arguing with a customer. I listened to the call, and after the woman told me I was incapable of doing my job, I replied "Even if that is true, ma'am, the answer is still no. I will not fax you a copy of your statement, because there is no fax machine at this office."

I accept my one-day suspension and going forward I will not argue needlessly with customers nor reveal the limitations of the office.

The fourth ticket was a five-day suspension for lying to customers. I also listened to parts of this call. I remembered him. He was an old man with a sympatheic ear. The call lasted an hour. I got his Weather on Demand station working and the conversation progressed from global warming through George Bush, healthcare (because I'm Canadian, he was genuinely interested), atomic warfare, Adolf Hitler, the technocracic obsessions of Western society, and finally our favourite science fiction novels. I also revealed to him the problem that I was having with tripping through time. His reply has really helped. "Listen kid, it might all be in your head, but even if it's real, you'll be ok. At least something interesting is happening. Believe me, the past is really dull."

I accept my five-day suspension and going forward, I will not lie to customers nor make unecessary statements about my personal life while on a call.

And finally, I received my Escalation ticket of Termination. Kent again caught my gaze. "Morton, we're going to have to let you go, ok? Your ACW time is just too high, over two minutes per call. You know this is blatant call avoidance, right? Management feels that there is also enough justification to offer no severance."

I accept my termination. Per the EMPLOYEE/EMPLOYER contract Section 3 subsection 7, I understand that I will not be offered severance because I have breached the following signed agreements with my employer:

1) That I will not abuse call avoidance techniques such as ACW, AuxW and CML.

I will hand in my headset, my identification badge, and all other FuStar property and be escorted off of the premesis immediately.

Goodbye, my friends! Billy, I hope you raise enough money for that 9mm you wanted. BJ, I'll still want those seeds if you are willing to part with them. I might have to grow for the money.

Peace out,

Morton.

Armageddon: are Visa cheque cards the Mark of the Beast?

Biblical scholars will reveal to you (if you can catch one) the ultimate secrets of the end times. Actually, I couldn't catch one myself, so I just looked it up on the Internet. See the Endtime Timeline for more details.

Now, back to my point. As you are aware, dear reader, I am not of this temporal plane. Like the old man on the mountain, I look sorrowfully down on you all from a vantage point that few have ever experienced (Diane interjects that like that old man, I'm probably completely off my rocker as well, but nevermind her; she is just jealous. You're greener than Billy's homegrown, Diane. I pity you in spades). Getting back to my point here, I have stumbled upon an informational trinket that just may save your life. And this isn't another one of those, "Oh no! The world is coming to an end in three days! Race to your bomb shelters and pray for an alkaline miracle to wash away the sulfuric acid rain!" type of trinkets. I've read The Boy who cried Wolf and I won't tempt your trust again. I have also read Echo and Narcissus and I am totally convinced that the moral of the story is that Narcissus is totally gay. Totally.

Anyway, I was reading the National Post, and stumbled upon a most unnerving article. Apparently, Visa, acting on the FDA's approval of human microchip implants, is leading the charge toward the proverbial cashless society by creating the first cheque card microchip. I would link to the article that covers this most heinous example of scientific debauchery, but alas, it is not available to you! Yet. And where on the human body do these satantic Visa engineers plan to embed this chip? You can take it on your hand, or lacking a hand, on your head, because no one lacks a head except the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, and we all know that is just fantastial nonsense!!!

The Beast has revealed himself! He is the owner of Visa! Who is the owner of Visa, you ask? Well, let me just Google that and ... uhh ... hmmm ... apparently no one owns Visa, it is simply a joint venture of thousands of financial institutions. How is that going to fit into my conspiracy factuality? AHA! The Beast is international banking! Of course! It all fits!

Save yourselves, peons! If you own a Visa card, you've already enlisted in the army of the Beast! The microchip promotes you to officer status! We are all doomed! I myself own, like, five Visa cards and they are all maxed out from paying for my Clozaril®!

I offer no further advice but this: follow the clues. Escape the fate of 1.4 billion Visa cardholders. Pay off your balance and cancel your memberships before it's too late!

By the way, Diane tells me that Echo and Narcissus isn't a fable by Aesop, but rather a poem by Ovid and there really isn't supposed to be a moral at all. That's sooo gay.

Jedi Master Snazz

Instead of a long, long time ago, it's only a long time ago, and Jedi Master Snazz continues the war against the darkside with cunning flips, x-ray vision, and a blaster in the offhand. Watch him FREAK OUT on the old fashioned Sith lords with their namsy pamsy parlour tricks by comparsion! Clones? Master Snazz practises on clones when he isn't fighting more worthwhile opponents. Who can stop Snazz? No one can stop Snazz.

Beware, evil doers! This isn't just your ordinary arbitrator of petty trade disputes, but the dude they keep locked up until SOMEONE NEEDS AN ASS WHOOPING! You may not believe this, but in all his days of enforcing grim justice, Snazz has never soiled his uniform. Who has time to use the force to repel flying blood and guts while inflicting mortal wounds on his unlucky foe? Snazz does.

"May the Force Be AWESOME!" - Jedi Master Snazz

Hero Machine

Dare I touch religion?

And speaking of mentioning Bush (count 'em, four!), doesn't religion fall into this category of must-have blog posts also?

But look! In the previous post I mentioned Jack Van Impe, that dear old doomsday prophesying machine. Ha! I have tread this thin ice covered in egg shells and reached the other side with nary a crunch or crack or sploosh! What else could I possibly say? The man speaks for himself:

"I am not sure whether [President Bush] knows all of the prophecies and how deep of a student he has been in God's Word, but I was contacted a few weeks ago by the Office of Public Liaison for the White House and by the National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice to make an outline," Van Impe says on his website. "And I've spent hours preparing it. I will release this information to the public in September, but it's in his [you know who] hands. He will know exactly what is going to happen in the Middle East and what part he will have under the leading of the Holy Spirit of God." Christianity Today

Even if it isn't true, it's still true, you know? And I should know better than any of you, heavens yes.

If I die before 2008 ...

I must admit, dear reader, that living in the future does have its drawbacks. And I want you to know that I fully appreciate the fact that all I've ever done so far is complain about it, making the last statement rather flippant and equivocal. Take for instance, the growing dissatisfaction amongst the American public with Bush. (Note that I might have mentioned earlier that no blog is a blog without at least one Bush post. I never said I'd never bring it up again! The savvy amongst you will have noticed that this is actually the third). Sure, its slowly dawning on the wingnuts and hillbillies that their fearless leader is actually completely useless, but I can tell you with a measured degree of certainty that four days from now, or right now if you're me, or four days ago if you're me four days from now, a very remarkable number of white folks will be tuning into Jack Van Impe to hear his latest predictions of the apocalypse and what a wonderful day that will be, an even more remarkable number of rich and lonely advertising consultants will watch Bill O'Reily complain about two or three extremely irrelevant subjects, and finally, millions and millions and millions of us around the globe will bitterly complain about the weather.

What is your point, Milton?

Didn't I just say flippant and equivocal?

Rejected "For Dummies" title

Thanks to SignGenerator.org for making this so easy to create.

All hail MP4.

As I pack away my cds, having just copied them all to an external hard drive, I ask myself: Will these ever have more value than they do right now?

And then Diane pipes up "Dummy. Does anyone care about cassettes?"

I'll keep the rare ones; how is that for a compromise?

Stupid, smart-alecky Diane!

The Amazing Tbag

The Amazing TBag: well to start with lets just hear whats on your mind about the war in iraq this is an open blog so just let out what ever comes to mind first

You know, I am glad you didn't tell me your opinion first, because now I feel I can say whatever the hell I want.

The war in Iraq is a symptom of democracy and idealism in decay. What I mean to say is that those in charge are some of the angriest, amoral and apathetic leaders we have ever had (AAA).

Bush especially represents all that is wrong with the world: born wealthy, knowing only one sort of lifestyle, raised to see a world of endless bounty that should be taken at will. Like so many children of Western society, greed and vanity seem to be the impetus for Bush's decisions. He cloaks his actions with religious rhetoric and that dopey, straight-shootin cowboy schtick, but deep down inside he is very small and shallow man, concerned with social status, his family fortune, and doing big favors for his buddies so they'll like him. He is the epitome of an MBA graduate.

Like I said, Iraq is nothing more than a symptom of a societal disease. The world is slowly dying in many different ways, yet our leaders can do nothing but play an endless game of oil economics.

The greatest minds in the world should be dedicating their time and energy to projects that would make life better: sustainable energy, the cure for cancer, locomotion without pollution, that would be cool! Instead, we get more meaningless crap like Sugar Twin or those sporty mufflers that make your car sound like you haven't got a muffler.

What the hell was I talking about, Iraq? Fuck Iraq. Its just a big fucking sham.

Nazis invented breakdancing

Thanks to Dharmabum27 for the picture, who borrowed it from someone else, and so on and so forth back through the long hapharzard decade of silly pics on the Internet.

Haiku #911

America Weeps.
Tears rain from F/A-18s,
forcing empathy.

Reminders of my own insignificance (self pity in three flats)

So the newness has worn off, and I have grown all too accustomed to living in this brave new temporal plane. Dr. Forbes has me on some new meds, and the nightmares, daymares, and seizures have subsided somewhat.

Perhaps this would be a good time to take stock of my situation and decide on the next course of action:

My ex-girlfriend keeps writing and calling me, but since I live four days ahead of her, I can never take her back. She will never see the world like I see it. She will never see herself like I see her, as a boring, slightly nosy, and altogether smart-alecky prima donna with too much trustfund and too little ambition. Fuck you Diane, for the final time hopefully!

I was unable to take advantage of the winning lottery numbers in last weeks Super 7 jackpot. Dr. Forbes has patiently explained to me that if I send the numbers back to myself 4 days earlier, I might accidentally rupture my already tenuous hold on this spacetime eddy. Like a jet ski ramming through a roped off section of the beach, reserved for Mrs. Harper's grade 3 field trip, the thrill of the moment would be overshadowed by the horror of future consequences.

My supervisor is coming! Yikes!

"Thanks for calling Comcast, this is Morton speaking, how can I help you today?"

"Cut my digical cable back on right now!"

"Did we cut it off, ma'am?"

"Yeah, you fuckers cut it off cause I ain't paid my bill, but I ain't received a bill yet! You cut it off, now cut it back on!"

"Ok, ma'am, I'd certainly be happy to take a look at your account for you, can I start with your home telephone number? ..."

Now it's next Wednesday

Just a quick update on my temporal situation, folks. It's next Wednesday and very little has changed. The Ducks-Oilers series rages on! I guess I told you things were fucked up and all Hell had broken loose in a previous post. My bad. Believe me that I would never intentionally lead anyone on like that! Ahem, now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.

And yes, Diane! It has occurred to me that it might really be next Wednesday, and this whole writing to the past thing is all in my head! Fuck you! My method of temporal communication is both foolproof and logically sound.

You see, if I haven't posted a mesage yet, it can't possibly be there, but as soon as I write it and send it backward through the spacetime continuum, it appears on my blog both in the past and all points up to and including the present.

It is always the last posting on this blog and there are never any posts from the present that appear before that post. Therefore, everything appears in the right order and is never further along than four days ago.

That chill you just felt was the long, cold grip of logic strangling all arguments withing you, Diane.

Kyoto Message Board Snippet (4 days into the future!!)

Lipstick Liberal
Even Canada is having a hard time dealing with the Kyoto accord.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20060517/wl_canada_afp/canadapolitics_060517002543

offthegrid
Canada is having trouble with Kyoto because it procrastinated implementing real policy and now we have a bunch of Albertans running the country. (Your version of Texas, right down to the rodeos, oil, and general disdain toward the rest of the nation).

Lipstick Liberal
Canada CANT meet the obligation set by Kyoto not because the conservative minority government wishes to ignore Kyoto, its because YOU wont slow down on producing the pollution.

You must remember that your government is discussing a problem that YOU help create.


offthegrid
Oh, so its individual responsibility is it? That's very progressive of you.

Never mind forcing industry to curb emmissions, or implementing any kind of sound policy or strategy for reducing our consumption of oil over the next decades.

Its up to me to stop driving my car to work and take the bus instead! that'll solve everything!

Hey, here's an idea, I'll stop buying paper and wiping my arse and Irving will stop clear cutting the old-growth forest as well!

And my government isn't supposed to be DISCUSSING the problem. It's supposed to be honoring an international treaty that it signed in good faith almost ten years ago to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. Some shitty advertising campaign to reduce garbage (the infamous 1 ton challenge, which I am proud to say I accomplished - you should see my space age composting system!!!) isnt' the answer!

Bold moves, like expanding transit systems to make them worthwhile to use, mandatory composting and recycling (already done quite successfully in Nova Scotia), heavy enforcement of emmission controls in factories, this is what our government needs to do.

Take action! Lead by example! Raise the fucking bar!

More time travel, and warnings from the future!

Friends! It has happened again! This time I tripped over a loose shoelace and fell into Next Monday. My God! What has the world come to? There is death and destruction everywhere! With the help of a brilliant scientist named Roger Forbes, I have devised a way to transmit my posts back to the present. From now on, I will always be exactly 4 days ahead of you. Heed my advice and live, friends!

From what I can glean from the local newspapers, the first catastrophe will occur in ...

Oh, why bother? It's not like anyone reads this stupid blog, anyway. Fuck you, world - especially you, Diane.

Morton out.

What Dungeons & Dragons Character Am I?

I Am A: Chaotic Evil Half-Elf Cleric Fighter

Alignment:
Chaotic Evil characters are the most 'evil' people out there. They are willing to do anything to get ahead, and will kill anyone who stands in their way. A chaotic evil person sees no value in order and governments, and believes to the utmost in the tenant that 'Might Makes Right'.

Race:
Half-Elves are a cross between a human and an elf. They are smaller, like their elven ancestors, but have a much shorter lifespan. They are sometimes looked down upon as half-breeds, but this is rare. They have both the curious drive of humans and the patience of elves.

Primary Class:
Clerics are the voices of their God/desses on Earth. They perform the work of their deity, but this doesn't mean that they preach to a congregation all their lives. If their deity needs something done, they will do it, and can call upon that deity's power to accomplish their goals.

Secondary Class:
Fighters are the warriors. They use weapons to accomplish their goals. This isn't to say that they aren't intelligent, but that they do, in fact, believe that violence is frequently the answer.

Deity:
Talos is the Chaotic Evil god of storms, forest fires, earthquakes, tornadoes, and destruction in general. He is also known as the Destroyer. His followers fear him more than worship him, and they revel in the destructive fury of nature - while praying to be spared from its wrath. Talos's symbol is three lightning bolts, of different colors, coming from a central point.

Find out What D&D Character Are You?, courtesy of NeppyMan (e-mail)

My new Super Power

While gulping down my 12th extra-large triple-sugar coffee at work today, a queer feeling came over me. More specifically, the feeling came over my groinal area. I quickly excused myself to the lavatory and locked myself in the largest stall, the one reserved for the physically disabled. I unzipped, peeked inside and WHOA! My penis had shriveled to such a degree that it seemed to have retracted inside of me. My testes had done the same thing!

So that is my new super power. With enough coffee, I can make my genitals hide inside my body, thus rendering me impervious from kicks to the crotch.


I promise that I will only use this new-found power for the betterment of mankind. Try and kick me now, Diane, you sadistic fucking wench!

I Must Destroy You

Lemme level with you. The whole Mars thing was made up. Or perhaps Mars was an allegory for the United States of America. Communists everywhere have dreamed of destroying America as well. And as Jean-Francois Revel would have you believe, they soon will due to inevitable advantages.

But Revel forgets that they had Elvis - a true king - to compensate for all the shortcomings of those worthless bureaucrats in D.C. What did the Commies have to distract the plebs from the Kremlin? Military parades? Yawn.

My fantasy places Canada in the role of hero against the villainous Americans. I picture us as noble defenders of the great North, a shield against the horde below, who turning their hungry eyes to our untouched lands, meet only the points of our swords and the harrowing winds of Winter.

Alas, fantasy it will remain. We emulate their bullshit culture and sell our land, our power, ourselves to them for bargain basement prices. Our horde bows to Mammon as theirs does. Our lakes are dirtied, our forests raped, our oil burned. At least the commies wasted it all on themselves.

Are you angry because the Americans came, took everything of value and now give the orders, or are you angry because you are an American and you hate yourself for it? Imagine being Canadian and being angry about both.

George W Bush

A bit passe, I understand. But can a blog truly be a blog without at least one entry on George W Bush? Well, better late than never.

George W Bush will not be remembered as the worst president ever for one reason and one reason only: no one will be left alive to remember.

Thank you very much.

A poem: Prose hidden in pretentious line breaks (Because I Can)

When
the gentry deposed their
masters,
What

first

crossed their minds when they turned
...
and saw what they had risen from



to become masters of?

Supervisor Call

"Thanks for calling Comcast Cable, this is Morton speaking, how may I help you today?"

"I want to speak with your supervisor, RIGHT NOW!"

"Ok, I can certainly look into that for you; may I please start with your home phone number?"

"What business is that of yours? I asked for a fucking supervisor! GET ME ONE, NOW!!"

"Ok ma'am, I do apologize that you are having an issue with Comcast, may I place you on hold while I get my supervisor?"

"... what did you call me?"

"Ma'am?"

"No, just now, what did you just say to me?"

"May I place you on hold?"

"You called me a WHORE!!! How dare you speak to me like that young man! How DARE you call me a whore!"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I didn't call you a ... uhhh ... well, I would never use that word. I'm sorry if you misheard me."

"Yes you did, you lying bastard! you called me a whore. You Comcast assholes are all the same! You have no respect - no respect at all!"

"May I place you on hold while I get my supervisor ma'am?"

To her husband "un-fucking-believable! He just called me a whore again!"

"No, I'm sorry ma'am, I really didn't. You have to believe me!"

"I've had it with you! Get your supervisor this instant!"

BEAT

"Thank you very much for holding ma'am, I'm Kent, a supervisor here at Comcast, you asked to speak with me?"

"Just one damn minute, you can talk to my husband!"

BEAT

"Hello?"

"Hello, sir. This is Kent speaking, how can I help you today?"

"Well first of all, I don't appreciate people calling my wife a whore!"

"I'm very sorry about that sir, I can assure you that we monitor and record every call for quality assurance purposes, and if a Comcast representative did indeed make inappropriate remarks, he will be reprimanded for it. I will open an investigation immediately."

Wife yelling in background "They're all a bunch of fucking drug pushers! I'll shoot every goddamned one of them!"

"Like I said sir, I will certainly look into whether inappropriate language was used by Morton during this call. In the meantime, is there something I can help you with?"

"Yeah, I've been getting crank calls, and I want them to stop!"

"I can certainly understand your frustration, sir. Have these calls been coming from Comcast?"

"What? No, no, crank calls from other people, I just want you to block them for me."

"Well sir, I'd be happy to help you with that, are we your local telephone provider?"

"Uhhh, well, I don't know. Doris! who's the phone company?"

"Bell South, idiot!"

"She says its Bell South, that's you right?"

"I'm afraid not, sir; Comcast does provide phone service but it appears that you have services with Bell South. Would you be interested in hearing about our digital phone service? For only one flat rate per month, you can call anywhere ..."

"No, not right now, we'll have to think about it."

"Very good sir, until then, I believe it would be in your best interest to contact Bell South and discuss your situation with them."

"Right."

"Is there anything else I can help you with in the meantime?"

"You're going to see about that whore business, right?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Well, I guess that's about it, then."

"Very good sir, thank you for calling Comcast Cable, and you have a wonderful day!"

"Yeah, you too. Bye."

Back to Work

When I went to see about my job, I was completely unsurprised to find that I was still on the schedule, even after all these months. My floor supervisor came over and asked me to sign off on several hundred coaching tickets, 198 of which were concerned with my AWOL status. I signed each one with the same copy and pasted statement:

I will remember to call the toll-free sick line whenever I am going to miss or be late for a shift.

“Your stats are pretty low, uhhhh … what’s your id number again?”

“394748.”

He glances at his Palm Pilot, “Right, Morton, your stats are pretty low. I’m putting you on a Quality Improvement Plan (QIP), let’s work on your call time today, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Alright, get to the phones, I’ll be back to monitor later.”

Geez, not even progressive discipline? I was expecting at least a verbal warning. Gun nut Billy waves to me from the opposite desk. “Hey Mort, I’ve got another dumbass on the line, begging me for credit - can hardly speak English. Nya-myum-blam-blehmmmm! Learn to talk right, you dumb fuck!”

Good ol’ Billy.

Explaining my Absence

You don't care, but I disappeared for awhile. I walked through a fold in the spacetime continuum, and directly into 2006. What a crazy seven months! It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

Just my fucking luck. I travel seven measly months into the future instead of 20 years or a million years, or even backward to 1967 so that I can track down George Harrison, impress him with some trinket of knowledge and then we'd just hang out. We'd trip the light fantastic and I'd make him feel better by assuring him that he would end up being the coolest and most respected of the fab four in the future.

Sweeeet.

But no, I get here and find out that New Orleans is sunk, cowboys are running Canada and Dick Cheney shot a guy in the face! Why is it all so fucking funny?!? I can't stop laughing...

Stoned and Alone

Pot can wreak havoc on any healthy fear and turn it into a sickly and twisted paranoia. And there is no greater paranoia than that which comes from introspect. I am stoned and alone, and I am afraid.

Ants have Invaded my Bomb Shelter

Although I do not feel absolutely safe in returning to the outside
world, the recent invasion of killer ants has forced me to the surface.
Things seem calm, the air is filled with an unnerving serenity. I keep
looking over my shoulder for the coming menace. The ants, meanwhile,
are attacking my survival rations.

Message From My Bomb Shelter

I had a dream that an airliner crashed on my street. I'm spending the
day in here until I feel it is safe to come out.

Going Call Centre

Gun nut Billy explained to me that going call centre was much like going postal, except that you don't wait until you're fired to start mowing down coworkers, but rather you take the gun with you to work everyday and wait for the perfect moment.

Think of it as premeditated instead of passionate. If you work in an inbound campaign, you know that sooner or later some asshole is going to phone in and rake you over the coals because you can't give him account credit for $700 in ppv porn purchases which his family "as God-fearing Baptists, couldn't possibly have made."

Never mind that this asshole has a 16-year-old son with an unhealthy attitude toward sex because of his upbringing and who never leaves his room. It's just not possible, now where's that account credit!?!

You transfer them to escalations and then your floor supervisor yells at you because that will "ruin the team's First-Call Resolution (FCR) quota," and you think to yourself, "If I had a pistol in my lunch bag right now, everyone within my line of sight would die."

Going call centre, then, requires preparation and patience.

Join the war against Mars: an impassioned plea from T.T. Willerson.

People of the free world! The communists are planning on destroying Mars themselves! We can't let this insult to our own greatness happen! You can help by enlisting in the Global Space Army, a private, global organization that pledges itself to destroying Mars first!

We have decided to hire a campaign consultant to raise money for this exorbitant quest. You can help in the hiring of this consultant by donating to:

The Global Space Army Foundation
45s0, 15w30
c/o T.T. Willerson