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Proper Introduction [May. 9th, 2004|10:17 pm]
dangerbyca
[Current Mood |accomplishedaccomplished]
[Current Music |Cafe Del Mar - Sest Nonce don vie]

Today i realized that i have bee terribly rude, for this I apologize. I never properly introduced myself. I feel we may need to start from scratch.

Hello, my name is Shaun and i am 25.

You're name is? ____(insert name here)____

Well __(inserted name)__, it is very nice to meet you.

Let me take you into my life a little.

I work day in and day out in a cage. No I’m not one of our illustrious city employed zoo keeper nor am I the hunter of all things reptilian. Unlike an animal cage my cage is three and a half walls. Three and one quarter walls are Extruded metal with a fabric face, The last quarter wall is solid frosted glass. Instead of a Bronze plaque with my Name, Latin derivative and complete history of my Kingdom, Genius, Family, Etc… I have a small paper printout velcrowed to the outside of my cube with my name and cube number, ready to be replaced at a moments notice.

Most animal’s in the zoo are better taken care of then me, at least at the zoo the keepers TRY to emulate the animals natural environment. I am in anything but. In front of me is an old PC. Now, in my job I am intended to “Think outside the box”, kind of ironic. I am supposed to come up with new ways of doing things, program computers. The PC in front of me is so old; I actually believe it was purchased at the Watergate closing sale.

At work they try to satiate our desire to go home or be outside by tossing us another t-shirt. Hey, who’d of though? That’s how you make your workers happy. Give them a branded t-shirt to wear around. As if I didn’t feel that work owned enough of me, now when I finally escape I have to be a walking billboard.

I like my job I just don’t like my job. In school they give us that aptitude test. Remember they ask if you have a million dollars what would you do for work. What a crock. If that test worked then I bet there is some fry cook at the local McDonalds kicking himself for giving the answer he did. I mean really if we all just did jobs because we loved them, who would clean our toilets? Who would be that guy that has to check the Ph levels at the sewage treatment plant?

So, that is me and a little enlightenment as to how my brain works.

Night~
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Nurotic Vampires [May. 8th, 2004|05:59 pm]
dangerbyca
[Current Mood |nostalgicnostalgic]
[Current Music |Silence]

I came to a realization today. I was watching one of those classic monster movies. Now, I have never claimed to be an expert in the ways of mythical movie monsters, but there are some tidbits of monster fighting I have picked up through my love of classic film noir.

Let me ask you a question

How do you kill a vampire?
A. Silver Bullet
B. Fire
C. Wooden Stake
D. All The Above


Answer: C

Most of us know this already; you kill a vampire with a wooden stake. Watching one of these movies recently I stumbled across an interesting fact. I hate to ruin your possible love of film but. Vampires don’t really die by the wooden stake! They actually suffer for a certain neurosis. They death is psychosomatic. I came across this today.

Here our truth wielding, fight for justice, courage against the odds hero is in the last minutes of the movie. Backed into a corner it looks like certain death. Leaning backwards to get away our hero is nearly horizontal. As your heart races, suddenly, they have a wooden stake *PAUSE* First, where the heck did this come from? I mean there half torn outfit was a lil tight to hide this new weapon, I didn’t see it in their back pocket. *UNPAUSE*. As the vampire lunges uncontrollably our hero jabs the stake into our enemy and we breathe a sigh of relief.

Here is the crucial moment. The vampire YELLS a shrill that loosens earwax that has built up since you were 3. This is just natural, it does not matter what kind of monster you are, YOU JUST GOT PIERCED WITH A STINKIN TREE LIMB. Even if you’re somehow immortal, IT HURTS. At this point our monster we yell, look super pissed and generally imitate Hunter S. Thompson at the end of an Ether binge. Somehow there DEATH does not take place until they actually look down and see that the stake is really made of wood. At that time they become overly dramatic like William Shattner in ANY Star Trek episode.

The stake didn’t kill him, it was psychosomatic. Hey Dracula. Don’t look at the stake next time, you were like six inches away from wining. Bad guys 1 Good guys 0. This all probably stems from bad relationships with their parents, I mean if your mom grow wings at night any fly’s around looking for blood to suck – were is the communication.

Conclusion: Vampires really need a good psychiatrist. If they worked out these issues then they would be really elite.
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Where do they come from? [May. 7th, 2004|01:36 pm]
dangerbyca
[Current Mood |confusedconfused]
[Current Music |Perfect Circle - The Noose]

Sometimes I believe that companies scour the sewers of human depravity to fill their lower ranks. To keep myself from going on another interoffice safari I periodically walk the call center area of our fine establishment to clear my head. Today I noticed someone quite odd.

Now step back with me for a quick minute. When you have a call center you do have the distinct advantage of keeping your employees hidden from view, shielded behind miles of copper telephone cable lost in a veritable maze of cubicles. They strip your identity and assign you a number, as if your name wasn’t good enough. These employees are nothing more than another coppertop, another 9 volts powering its self-contained capitalistic machine.

With this being said does that validate our hiring methods. Do we feel the need to just hire anyone to keep our cost down? Why brings me to this tangent?

Yesterday on my walk I noticed an older gentleman. His entire job every day is customer interaction. Imagine him as our company’s personal ambassador to YOUR home. Now picture him if you will.

He’s older, 60-65. Salt & Pepper hair combed over to mask the top of his head, which can only be described as a personal solar panel. His hair is long enough to touch halfway down his shoulders, and looks to be practically dripping with an amalgamation of Bril Cream & Olive Oil. Powder blue turtleneck under a sports jacket, you know the kind with the fake suede elbow patches. The ones designed to convince you friends that your more sophisticated than you really are, like they are going to believe that you actually ride horses and go on fox hunts during the weekends. His eyes actually mildly point in separate directions when relaxed. You never really know if he’s looking at you or just over your shoulders. Both of them at the same time! His beard is constantly in the 1.75-day’s unshaved stage. Finally the “coup de gra”. The first thing you notice about him. The reason you can find him in any maze of cubicles. Why I can trail him down any hallway and always be just out of sight. Around his neck hangs dangling, gaudy, platinum, shiny, oversized, replica of Jesus. That’s right, in complete anguish with full crown of thorns.

This is why companies have call centers. Shielding these people from view. Think about it. What would you do if he showed up at your door to discuss your next bill?
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You touch you mom with that hand? [May. 6th, 2004|09:52 pm]
dangerbyca
[Current Mood |I am Shauns' disreguard]

Work again was knawing at the back of my head, projects stacking up like that infernal Jenga game. The risk taker i am i pull the bottom outer block and close my eyes. My work day crashed uncontrollably, allegations flying, fingers pointing and excuses in more abundance that babies at a Rabbit convention in spring. I never claimed to be a fortunate man.

That's it, i need a break, some solice before i strip down to my boxers, climb atop the cubical walls and hunt my co-workers with makeshift Bolas fashioned from Cat 5 cable and thoes soft foam stress balls. Yea you got it, i hang in the shadows of burnt out florecent lights picking out all thoes people who think the network color printer is their own personal Kinkos. Leaving me as the underpaid minimum wage monkey clearing their paper jams.

** I am Shaun's loathing of human contact **

Sorry for the tangent. Anyway, i go to the only place i can be comfortable the men's room. Didn't you guess it? The men's room is like a special club, complete with it's own secret handshake. ;) In the men's room you can be yourself. People don't size you up, put on facades. There are certain fact's you must face while you are there though. Every man passes gas while at the urinal, it's just accepted.

For instance:
Man A Leaves cubical B going 1.76 mph down Hallway Z to said Mens Room Q. Man A approaches urinal at 1:38 EST. Man C already at urinal E enters conversation G with Man A. Man A winded from Distance Z - B * 1.76 mph passes gas ** I am Shauns contempt for word problems **. How long is the pause in A and C's conversation?

ANSWER:
0, all men fart at the urinal

Anyway i am standing and releasing all my built up stress, OH and about 64 oz of Mt. Dew. The guy next to me is what i like to call a Urinal Rainman. He won't talk or even react, just staring forward at the soothing white tiles, probably muttering, "Woppner at 4:30, Gotta se woppner". So he Pee's and imitates a OCD laiden nut job. To each their own. But, my point. Yes there is a reason for the rambling.

His cell phone ring's, during his secret handshake. At this point i am at the sink, as the gem i am i go to the end to leave him room. After he finishes he answers the phone and leaves tha mens room. NO WASHING OF HANDS!!! LIVID.

He walked around all day, meeting and greeting. Basically saying, "Try my secret handshake". Nobody wants to shake his pants. People like that make me want to vomit, except im not that self centered.

** I am Shauns complete cleanliness **
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Look at me! [May. 5th, 2004|10:05 pm]
dangerbyca
Have you ever thought about why we as humans throw up? I mean sure doctors give some bio-medical reasoning as to why the body suddenly decides to expel any sort of acid and food particle in your body into the outside world once again. But i don't agree, i believe it is the center of Me-ism. A sudden acid induced volcano of self praise. Here you are a veritable Picasso of half digested food using the bathroom as your personal canvas. Nothing in the world say look at me more than waking up in the morning and having your sacred porcelain altar desecrated with crusted bile mixed Shrimp cocktail and red salmon.

Only a true self assuming pig paints his un-digestive portrait at 2.00 am and leaves it un-kept for the next true art lover to stumble upon, literally. You may say, "That is not true, it uncontrollable". How have you felt after returning to the bathroom to see all existence of you cry for help swept away by those minuscule rapacious scrubbing bubbles. If you still don't believe me then ask yourself why the majority of models are anorexic. I find it sickening that this is an every day occurance. Thoes of us with Ulcers are not suffering from a medical condition but actually a massive personality complex.

Next time you get sick, think first. Are you sick or just depressed? Do you feel left out of life? Feel like you don't fit in? You probably need to toss cookies.

Take my ramblings as you will. The truth lies within your interpretation or insanity.
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What to do? [May. 5th, 2004|07:43 pm]
dangerbyca
[Current Mood |cynicalcynical]
[Current Music |The other voice in my head]

Im new, What to do!
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