JBot Mania

I was in the car listening to “The Ascent of Stan” by Ben Folds. Side Note: I LOVE Ben Folds. Anyway, at first, the references to hippies made me think of the Lurchinator™, but the rest doesn’t much follow since he hasn’t really turned into “The Man” yet, or even “A Man”. So then, I started to think, who else could this be? I have this sneaking suspicion that for one glimmering moment when he was say, ten, the man who I will call Fucknuts McMullen (because that is NOT his name), may have actually thought that he would do something with his life, but sadly…

“pangs of silence
from the room upstairs
how’s the view there?
do you read what
they’re saying about you?

that you’re no fun
since the war was won
in fact, you have become
all of the things you’ve always
run from

the ascent of Stan
textbook hippy man
get rest while you can

so where’d the years go?
all the time we had
being poor was
not such a drag in hindsight

and you wondered
why your father was
so resigned
now you don’t wonder anymore

the ascent of Stan
textbook hippy man
textbook hippy man
get rest while you can

[Stan]
once you wanted revolution
[Stan]
now you’re the institution
[Stan]
how’s it feel to be the man?
[hurts to be the man]
it’s no fun to be the man

and I watched it all go down
the ascent of Stan
textbook hippy man

[Stan]
textbook hippy man
get rest while you can

[Stan]
once you wanted revolution
[Stan]
now you’re the institution
[Stan]
how’s it feel to be the man?
[hurts to be the man]
it’s no fun to be the man”

It’s a good song. I’d buy the album “Rocking the Suburbs“

Brenda: he speaks like a f*cking robot

JBot has another contribution to the English language. The first contribution, we will all remember, was “Dickass”– a creation that stemmed from the rage created by the one known as Super Softee™and the ensuing inability to determine if he was a dickhead or an asshole, or both.

After trying to find a bank in the greater East Hartford area this weekend, I developed another word– rifuckulous. Rifuckulous is a word which describes a situation beyond ridiculous. So fucking ridiculous that it is, in fact, rifuckulous.

Please feel free to use at will.

Refuckulitis (ree-fuk-yu-lei-tus)– Refuckulitis is a virus that not only exists in nature but can also be found in feces, hot tub bubbles, and the smiles of Starbucks workers. Refuckulitis can lead to blindness, rash, and tremor. Refuckulitis can be spread through intimitate AND incidental contact. Although refuckulitis can be treated with vigorous application of a salve to the affected areas of contact, there is no cure. Refuckulitis can also be rediculating. The rediculating strain is far more severe and can lead to a loss of testicular cohesion– very messy.

So, a couple of years ago I had the pleasure of working in yet another open cubicle environment. This time, my prison came with 3 1/2 walls. The number of walls, however, is irrelevant in this post because the subject of this post existed completely outside the bounds of such trivial physical limitations. We will call him Carl because, like so many, that was his name.

Carl was a man whom I can only speculate lived with his mother for far too long or, at least, was breast fed until the age of 12. As far as anyone could tell, he was certainly not married and most likely lived quite alone. He was, and perhaps still is, in his mid-forties and quite bald.

I can guarantee that I have never met a man who could out-gossip any hairdresser this side of LA– and do so almost compulsively. I will never forget the day, alluded to briefly below, where I actually heard him tell the same story to nine people and then say to the tenth, “Now don’t let this get around but…”

The real reason that this Carl was the bane of my existence at this job was not so much what he said, but at the volume at which he did so. There are no decibal measures for the volume at which my soul was shattered on a daily basis.

My thanks to Lewis Black is in regards to his schtick about the phrase “But for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in college”… It really spoke to me in this case.

I was finally able to move away from this blowhard and on the occasion of my release, I sent the following to some co-workers. The names of the innocent have been protected– the innocent being anyone but Carl.

“Subject: Thoughts on moving
Body: Well, my moving day into [associates]’s office has been set for next Tuesday at 8:30 am. As I sit here listening to Carl explain to yet another
person that he cannot order 50 of something for two sites because there
are only 60 total in inventory, and that he’d like to just order 30 for
each, but that he really needs to find the woman ordering them so that
he can know for sure if that’s okay because like he said, there are only
60 in inventory… I think how much I am going to miss this. The slow
dying of my brain as the same phrase repeats over and over again until I
go to sleep wherein I have a dream with the same words over and over…
I wake up and I say to myself “but there are only 60 in inventory”.. I
then drift off into other fond memories of other stories ingrained deep
within my consciousness, my soul and will to live slowly fading away -
stories about being overcharged for items printed ‘on demand’. My
favorite statement “now don’t let this get around but…”. Oh, those
were the days - the days in which I contemplated physical violence only
to laugh myself silly with the irony of such phrases. What will I do in
my new found paradise without being reminded every day that my life just
isn’t that bad apparently. That there are others suffering EVERY DAY
with such obstacles. The only solution I can think of is perhaps a tape
of  just one more inane conversation about binders or tabs or printing
‘on demand’.  Carl ‘on demand’ if you will. Oh what a glorious world it
would be then knowing that I have the ultimate power to silence him with
a press of the Stop button.

Oh well, I guess I will just have to find some other way to relive these
precious moments.”

Generally, I give Steven Colbert alot of credit because, for the most part, he seems pretty even handed to me in his harassment of guests. He seems like he could play Devil’s Advocate to Jesus and be pretty convincing.

Recently, he gave a monologue at the White House Correspondents Dinner and I just have to post it. Not only does it make me feel all warm and squishy in my gooey liberal center, but it harkens back to his brilliance displayed on “Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law”– a show that is regrettably missed.

**UPDATE** Dear God, ladies and gentleman, there may have been another season of Birdman and I missed it? How do I go on? And when the f*ck is it on again?

“Sometimes realistic IS negative.”

So, when confronted with the recurring problem of Cheeto cheese covered knuckles from reaching too far down into a large Cheetos bag, my co-worker–we’ll call her Brenda because that is her name–came up with the following ingenious idea.. CUT THE BAG. Wow, what a difference this had made in my life. Now, I am much, MUCH closer to those tiny extra cheesy morsels at the bottom and I am free of knuckle cheese. Good for me. Finger cheese, still an issue, but that is when you implement phase 2 - spare tissue. Voila!

“I love you, but you’ve got to get a clue.”

“The only thing standing between you and Cyclical Vomitting, is the 99.99999999% chance that you won’t get it.”

“It’s like covering cancer with a BandAid™”

“I would eat monkey, but for the disease.”

“I would not eat monkey because it’s like eating people.”

“Peeing is momentary. Thirst is forever.”

It is clear now that I need my own icon. But how can I compete with this? Please feel free to send your suggestions. Also, feel free to figure out HOW to send such suggestions on your own.