July 27, 2011
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From the category archives:
Bullshit
July 7, 2011
This morning, I was looking through photos of happier times. But not really because my Photobooth is like a grainy series of ‘Shut-in who wears the same clothes every day and one time, took them off in an attempt to be sexy but that didn’t work because her face is in double chin mode and why didn’t I delete that?’
But I did come across this:
And my heart stopped. Not because it looks like I’m wearing blackface (okay, sort of) but because fuck, I left my sex doll at my old apartment. And I’ve already lost my best friend, I can’t lose my sole outlet for sex, too.
So I panic. And then I email my ex.
No response yet. This might get ugly.
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March 23, 2011
On the 17th of December, I was on my couch feeling alone and hopeless. Mostly because I was alone and hopeless. Tears were sliding down my face so slowly it was as if they had been convinced that they were destined to fall into an episode of Reba after leaving my face. As with most cases of rejection, or in the this case, being a complete oversight, I felt instantly foolish for being me. Everything suddenly made sense, and it was a bad thing.
Earlier that week, I interviewed for a community manager position with Rocket Ninja, a social gaming startup. They make stuff like Farmville but for people who are even poorer. It was the strongest lead I’d had in a while and the first time I was actually upfront about writing Vagina Drum. I had a rapport with everyone who interviewed me and Dean, the guy who would be my boss, seemed really enthusiastic about me and what I had to say about areas that needed improvement. He said he would call me with a decision – either way – on Friday, the 17th. Overall, I was optimistic.
And now we’re back to my couch. I tried staying busy that day but grew more and more anxious as time passed. I trusted that Dean would get back to me because he hadn’t bullshitted me up until that point, so I had no reason to think that I would have to wait until Monday for an answer. Which is what happened. And I had to be the one to ask him the obvious – did I get the job?
Short answer: no. Long answer: he had car trouble “all day” and couldn’t contact me since I guess the car trouble ended up being a faulty flux capacitor and he went back to a time before the internet, cell phones and the expectation that when you tell someone you’ll contact them on Friday, they…wait for you to contact them on Friday. At any rate, a decision to ditch the role entirely and hire a temp was conveniently made while he was out trying to evade the Libyans and find plutonium or you know, dealing with “car trouble.”
I realize that applying for a job paying around the same amount as a Geo Metro with all the perks dents my credibility a bit, but I’m not stupid. Car trouble? On the day when the decision was supposed to be made? And then a decision was made but you had nothing to do with it because you were getting your tires rotated? Come on. At this point I was just insulted. I can handle the fact that he didn’t get back to me within the agreed upon time. I’m okay with not getting the job. Those variables were already installed before I walked in the door. What I can’t handle is getting a completely bullshit response that, uh, as far as I know has nothing to do with being able to use the phone or write an email. Consolation prize though – he “really enjoyed” meeting me.
Months later, I had a similar situation (in that, I didn’t get it) for a job that somehow required even less skill. It was a part time gig packing shirts/stickers and other stuff you typically just give away for GitHub. I was actually looking forward to this because GitHub is small, bootstrapped and to my knowledge, doesn’t use terms like “code warrior.” Everything a startup should be.
It was the kind of interview that, had I shown him my boobs and then witnessed him vomiting on my shoes as a result, I might actually have the job now. It was almost immediately obvious that we weren’t going to be coworkers or fuck buddies anytime soon. For a position that could be filled by Mark Zuckerberg’s hoodies, it kind of matters if you’re liked. After giving me an in-depth tutorial on how to put a shirt in a box and then apply the self-adhesive postage, he said that I’d hear from him which is code for “No way in hell.”
He’s the co-founder of a startup so I assume he has to like, tell people things so I’m not quite sure why he didn’t just tell me right there that an infant with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome could crawl through the door and the Michelob baby would still get the nod. A few days later I got an email from him letting me know that they went with someone else and that it really “bums him out” to tell me. I wish him well as he gets through this tough time.
Both cases have one thing in common – bullshit. These guys aren’t necessarily flawed because they’re used to delivering platitudes. They’re flawed because they’re happy to pretend that the people on the other end believe them.
What I’m essentially saying is – be a dick to me. As long as it’s purposeful. My time is worth at least that much.
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February 17, 2011
I like sandwiches. I would do almost anything for a sandwich. I know this, because I pretty much did a few days ago.
I regularly make the mistake of assuming that other people are like me. This is most likely why I never talk to anyone because they’ll probably just end up droning on about different kinds of buttercream frosting and then force me to talk about my feelings. I hate that.
But I make mistakes. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have these callouses all over my tongue from eating pizza the moment it leaves the oven. So I agreed to meet up with a guy from Funny or Die for lunch. And before you ask me if Will Ferrell really is that tall, no, not him. The guy I met up with just mails out t-shirts and promotional stickers. Standards.
Strike One: I see him approaching the previously agreed upon sandwich shop and instantly know it’s him because he looks like a less attractive version of his Twitter avatar. He walks past me and I introduce myself and he treats me like I’m some random fan who wants to gush about how magical it is that he can turn an empty envelope into one with a keychain inside and then mail it to someone in Ohio. Sure, he probably gets that all the time but come on.
Strike Two: He orders before me and I know that sounds rude but he went to Stanford so inflated ego before beauty, I guess.
Strike Three: He mentions that he went to Stanford and that he played football for Stanford maybe twelve times. I mean, my math isn’t so great because I didn’t go to Stanford but he did so you’ll have to ask him and maybe if he’s not too busy going to Stanford, he can give you a real answer. Stanford.
Strike Four: When he ran out of ways to mention how he went to Stanford and I started talking about screenwriting, he said that writing on spec was a lot like playing the lottery. Yeah, just like going to Stanford is like a guarantee that you won’t be the mail boy for a website that may as well be called AOL Email Forwards or Die.
But enough about that. Here’s a basic summation of my experience.
HAHA, SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR RIBS BECAUSE THEY JUST GOT TICKLED TO DEATH.
Look, I know what you’re thinking and yes he is a really funny guy who is not at all painfully insecure with jokes mostly about rape peppered with refreshing bursts of racism. So you can’t really blame me for agreeing to meet him for lunch. How do you pass that up?
Aside: Okay, honestly I never paid attention to his feed until after the fact at which time I looked kind of like this:
And maybe this is one of those Chicken Soup for the Soul things where I’m the asshole because he has some sort of Social Anxiety By The Way Stanford Disorder. But if you’re going to waste my time by talking about how you’re some sort of Kerouacian artist because you used to be a sports writer in Montana and then talk about how you just came from the gym no big deal and then talk about Stanford until your face turns cardinal red and then talk about playing football for Stanford, sorry, I’m going to assume that your penis can only be seen through an electron microscope.
There was some hesitation while writing this because he offered to look at my content and maybe post it on Funny or Die as long as it was in the hilarious and not at all trite list format. I suppose now that’s out of the question. But losing out on an opportunity to be on a website that didn’t even go to Stanford sounds like a bad deal anyway.
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January 26, 2011
Well, it happened. The number of people afflicted with chronic depression has finally intertwined with an overall lack of funds, resulting in the production of one truly heinous product.
The idea here is basic. Deliver as much shitty food in one box as possible, offload cookie dough contaminated with rodent feces and prove how useless the FDA is for letting a word like “WYNGZ” take the place of “RAT MEAT.”
But come on, something as authentico as DiGiorno wouldn’t steer us wrong, right? Roughly translated, it means ‘day’ in Italian. It’s not the most inspired choice but, “We use mechanically separated chicken parts for our pepperoni and sausage pizzas” is way, way too long. Oh and their slogan, “It’s not delivery. It’s DiGiorno” essentially means, “It’s not this awesome thing you love. It’s kind of a parody of this awesome thing you love but hey cheap ass, you don’t have to tip a delivery guy so just choke down your chicken beaks already.”
What’s ultimately upsetting though is that they come in the same box. Buying a frozen pizza and a slat of pre-made cookie dough separately says, “John Hughes movie night” or “Slumber party with friends.” Buying it in the same box says, “I’ll write my suicide note right on the back, next to the heating instructions and I’ll be all like ‘Life Instructions: Don’t do it, they’ll never love you back.’”
But for all of its repulsiveness, it is idiot proof for the $4.99 frozen pizza buying demographic. And if I’ve gleaned anything from recent eating habits in the U.S., it’s that convenience will always outrank substance and in some cases, eradicate it entirely.
DiGiorno: One pan, one oven, endless tastiness*.
*bowel obstruction
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