misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

thanks to some layout advice from Kat, my bloggs should be easier for you all to read. the content will still be boring as shit, but at least it will be easier on your eyes.

Okay, I've had about enough of these ridiculous government-funded studies on sociology for a lifetime. The recent study published on Yahoo News reports the astonishing analysis that violent lyrics may cause somewhat aggressive thoughts. I mean, shit. Who proposed this study? The same group that recently reported that binge drinking among college students may cause increased sexual activity? The same group that reported that children who eat fast food and drink soda every day have a more likely chance of becoming obese than children who exercise? Let's just chalk up certain things to common sense, and not have studies on these things. Many of you reading this could have told the scientific community that you are more apt to want to have sex after seven beers than after zero. You could have told the government that when you eat Arby's and curly fries and wash it down with a couple of Sierra Nevadas, you put on an extra pound or two. And I certainly could have told the government that when I hear a Dre lyric telling me to beat a bitch that don't suck good dick, my thoughts may be a bit more aggressive than when I listen to Van Morrison. Maybe we could study how driving skills are affected when your head is covered with a paper bag. Or study how breathing is affected when a fat chinese woman sits on your face. Teachers are losing their jobs and the unemployment rate is higher than it has been in years, and fuckers are getting paid to study how lyrics about sex make people more apt to think about sex. I am in the wrong industry. In a side note, I am looking for volunteers for a study I submitted to the government that they recently approved. I'll need you to eat your boogers for twenty straight days to see it causes weight gain, as I have long suspected. Email me if interested.

I am usually able to gauge how my life is going through analysis of what time I am waking up. Little of you know the truth: while I might leave bed later than all of you, that doesn't mean I wake up later than all of you. Yes, friends, make no mistake. Every morning I wake up around sunrise. I open my eyes, look around, and judge my desire to leave bed. It just so happens that my desire to leave bed at this point is lower than any of yours. So I turn over, close my eyes once again, and drift off into the only happiness I really know: sleep. It is all about decisions. Please don't read more into this than should be, but often the best time of my day is the hour or two extra I stay in bed before getting up to face reality. So while K-Ro arises every morning at dawn energetic and ready to tackle a full day of cost analysis worksheets and budget projections, I awake and decide that sleep is a better option to any thing else going on. Those of you that have lived with me are well aware I am capable of getting up early. I do it for football on Sundays, a new box of Lucky Charms in the pantry, and beer. When in Europe, I would wake up early every morning, as waking up to the Swiss Alps would give me the desire and energy for life I needed to actually lift the covers off of my body. However, work and chores have never been motivating enough to actually get me out of bed. When I had a job, work would whisper in my ear every morning around 7am "Arise, my handsome friend, arise. There is work to do. Get a fresh start. Be efficient. If you start now, you can get so much done. There are emails to send, scripts to program, computers to reboot .." You see, this voice was not very persuasive. I would listen to it for a minute, decide against listening and go back to bed. Then, around 11am, I would have built up the strength necessary to face the day. At the very heart of the matter is a fundamental truth: sleep is one of the few escapes from a stressful and routine world (beer is the other). So I shall hang onto it as long as possible, until the hands of reality grab and throw me into the world of oil changes, poverty, and loud, unruly ethnic school children on the J train. Perhaps I should keep a full pint of cold beer on my desk every morning, just out of my reach. It just may be enough to get me out of bed and start my day with the punch I often lack. Hmm. I'll give that a go tomorrow. If you see a blogg tomorrow morning around 7am, you'll know the experiment was a success. If not, well, fortunately nobody would be all too shocked.

So the Lakers have lost. The day i've desired for four years has arrived. The team i've hated with a passion unknown in my short life has lost. They are done. And yet, my heart is unsatisfied. It as when the horrible alien-monster who terrorized America's most amazing soldiers in Arnold Schwarzengger's great movie Predator was inflicted with a mortal wound. Although I hated this alien for the duration of the movie for killing such great soldiers as Carl Weathers and Billy with his high-technology alien laser ray, when it was his turn to die, I had sympathy. How could he die? He just wanted to kill soldiers with big muscles. Is that a bad trait? He was from some alien planet where it was obviously okay to shoot hot lasers through very buff humans. He was just doing what he was taught. And so I felt with the Lakers. It is an empty feeling. The hatred i've felt for so long has now been met. What do I live for now? Any time I was depressed, I would question myself, what reason is there for living? And I could immediately answer: to see the horrible team called the Lakers lose in the playoffs. But now, what do I have? I am back to facing the emptiness of life without desire. No team to hate. It as if I have desired the love of a woman for four years. Tonight, that woman has approached me and told me that she will be mine. I am unable to accept it. What do you mean, you will be mine? My life is wanting you, not actually having you. Once I have you, I have no drive, nothing to aspire to. Be careful of what you wish for, my friends, you just might get it. And like a dying eight-foot creature from space who bleeds neon-green blood, so am I, full of pain, confusion, and wonder for this world I call my home.

It is an emotion I have long been fascinated with. After bringing my 1992 GMC Jimmy into the shop for an oil change recently, I returned to pay my bill for $27.92. As I drove away, I was convinced that my car was driving smoother than it had in years. What is this business? Was it the smooth purr of the engine? The responsive braking system? The sparkling paint job? Hmmm. It was nothing. The oil has changed in a car I have owned since 1997. Nothing at all was different. Except for the oil. The oil was new. And somehow, that was enough to convince me that my car was refreshed. That it would run new for years. The same emotion hits me when I go to the gym after not working out for seven months. After that one single day of doing three sets of bench press, I am convinced I can beat up any man on this earth. Of course I can, I've done three sets of exercise that took me over eleven minutes to complete. Enough of this discussion. I have to take my newly conditioned car to a fast-food joint to get me some food.

It usually sweeps over me like a desert sandstorm, blinding my eyes and choking my throat. I am unable to eat, sleep, or breathe. All I am able to do is bitch. Yes, my friends, it is what I like to call a hate storm. I've experienced them at various points in my life. Times when cynicism and bitterness grip my mind like a large black fist, squeezing out any drops of optimism I might have.

I believe I inherited these temporary afflictions from my father. Memories of family day trips to Tijuana as a child flood into my mind. I remember my father at the wheel of our the family car cursing violently while waiting in the endless line of cars trying to enter back into the United States. He hated it. The cars, the little mexican boys trying to sell chiclets, the chiclets, the fat mexican women trying to sell blankets, the blankets, the mexicans, the americans, the mexican-looking americans. All of it. At times, it would last for days, not just on the trip back from Mexico.

They storm me now as well. Pure hatred of it all. The cruelty of the world, the futility of humanity, the ugly shoes girls wear that have no backs. I realize I am in the storm the same way I realize I am drunk. Instantaneously. Yesterday I sat watching the Mav/Spurs playoff game and I took out a bottle opener to lift the cap off of a cold Sierra Nevada. I momentarily had trouble taking off the cap and simply lost it. I got pissed at the fuckers who make slippery bottle caps, at the fuckers who make bottle openers with shitty handles, at the fuckers who make beer bottles that look like fat little monks. I hated the game I was watching, especially Raef La Frentz and his horribly shitty style of basketball. I hated the remote in my hand that made me turn on the basketball game and had funny little buttons my fingers were unable to properly push. I broke into a five minute fuck tirade at everything in my house and everything I could see from my patio, from the Transamerica building to the pigeon shit on the wood planks of my patio. I hated it all. All of it. And I woke up feeling no better.

As I walked down 24th street to the Church street so I could catch the J-Train, I started noticing things i've never really noticed before. Like clogs. These fucking clogs shoes are everywhere. They are worse than flip-flops. They are psuedo-shoes. I am against any shoes that you can slip your foot into, but clogs are doubly horrible because I can see the ratty-looking socks that the people wearing them have on.

As I walked on, it got bad. I am almost guilty to admit it, but for you all, I'll do it. I started to hate the crippled old woman in front of me hobbling along at snail's pace. Who is this old cripple in my path? I have to make it to Church and I have some 88-year old with disabled limbs trying to scuttle in front of me. Then I hated myself for being able to hate 88-year olds.

But the hate did not stop my friends. I thought about how I should blogg about my hate then decided I hate blogger, shitty tool. And I hated you all for giving me shit for not writing more often. You fuckers, I don't see any of you sitting down and writing entertaining prose on a daily basis. If you want to know the truth, if any of you are reading this, i've probably talked shit about you behind your back at some time or another. Everyone of you. Fuckers.

I hated the heat I felt today in the city. What the fuck is this heat all about? I live in San Francisco and it is ninety degrees out. I didn't come here for this kinda heat. And why are all the gay guys down by Castro so ripped? These fudge-packers walk around in tank-tops looking like bodybuilders. Who told them to be gay you had to be ripped? I wanted to tell them as much but then they'd kick my ass, and probably rape me after that. Bastards.

Then some fat chick walked by in a halter-top. I hate that too. You are fifty pounds overweight, and you are wearing a halter top. What are you thinking? Do you look in the mirror and not see that fat oozing out of your jeans, rolling over your hemline like a thick rope made of mashed potatoes? How can you not look at it and hate it? Fatty.

I hate ending bloggs too. Have you all read enough? Or should I keep listing hateable items. I've decided i'll end this blogg with something that I don't hate. In fact, it is something I love. The tall, cool bottle of Amstel Light that is currently on my desk as I write this. I love this bottle and its contents. It is the only thing keeping me from falling into the permanantly intoxicating sleep of cyncism. I hold out hope for us all yet. If we can create something as wonderful as beer, imagine all of the other wonderful things we can create.

I hate that I just used beer as my escape from this blogg like I always do. Get original, you fucker. I am a one-trick pony. I have not talent.

I hate that.

ugh.