Monday, June 30, 2008

C.O.V. - E.R.T. That Spells Covert, Rah-Rah Ree!

Every morning, as I begrudgingly roll out of my comfy bed and stumble to turn on Good Morning America, I half-deliriously wonder what little bit of news genius I'm about to experience... whether their 109th story of the year somehow relating to breast cancer & Robin Roberts, or something I won't go to hell for making fun of like the story on teens conspiring to get pregnant at the same time for fun. Also known as VH1's next reality show.

Either way, I find some semblance of comfort knowing I'm not the only idiot up this early... until, of course, we cut to Greg Fields, WFAA weatherman, whose voice cracking every time he uses descriptors like "a leeeeetle bit cloudy today" or "a tiiiinnnny bit of sunshine peeking through" make me want to punch my TV, and whatever God-awful hue of lipstick Alexa Conomos is wearing that day, a leeeeetle bit too aggressively.

Regardless, today was different. Today we were talking about covert ops. The coolest two-word phrase you can ever use - and one that will get heads turning and ears perked no matter what environment you use it in.

Today, I was suckered in. Then, as I stood there and listened, perplexed, Good Morning America reported on how the U.S. is increasing its investment & efforts on covert ops in Iran. Really turning up the volume over there - so shhhhh, America. This is top secret stuff.

So, I apologize for my ignorance on political affairs, but by their nature, aren't covert ops supposed to be, well, covert?

My natural inclination is to believe yes, they are. And an increase in their breadth & depth in Iran would also be classified information if those same operations were actually REAL and/or CURRENT. Don't make me feel like a casino security extra in Ocean's Eleven, bitches.

So, my next thought naturally turned to annoyance, and then anger. No, not out of disgust for my soon-to-be ridiculously & inappropriately long jaunt from my humble abode to the highway, thanks to what has to be a conspiracy by civil engineers to take as long as God-damn possible to finish the road construction between Maple & 35 on Oak Lawn. No, not angry because of that.

My anger stems from the fact that we, unfortunately, are complete dumbasses. At least that is what news outlets like this have to assume for this story to be worth telling. And the fact that it is fed to us as though we are being told the truth is even more embarrassing.

The dollar may be down, the economy may be in the crapper, but one thing is for certain - it will take a lot more than a few shitty days on the stock market for the general population to all of a sudden get the truth, on-time, and in-context. Opposite-day in a DISD budget meeting this most certainly is not.

And it will likely take even more for our government & propagators of its public relations efforts to stop using network news as a soap box and/or indirect communication channel when all other channels have already been destroyed by us, or the more likely culprit - Alexa Conomos's favorite shade of lipstick.

Yeesh.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Keep Up The Good Work, D-Town.



Hope you all are enjoying my lifetime savings. Here are a few additional words of encouragement for you... you cute, cuddly P/E ratios. Just wanna pinch your lil' cheeks.

- You’re on the right track now!
- You’ve got it made.
- SUPER!
- That’s right!
- That’s good.
- You’re really working hard today.
- You are very good at that.
- That’s coming along nicely.
- GOOD WORK!
- I’m happy to see you working like that.
- That’s much, much better!
- Exactly right.
- I’m proud of the way you worked today
- You're doing that much better today.
- You’ve just about got it.
- That’s the best you’ve ever done.
- You’re doing a good job.
- THAT’S IT!
- Now you’ve figured it out.
- That’s quite an improvement.
- GREAT!
- I knew you could do it.
- Congratulations!
- Not bad.
- Keep working on it.
- You’re improving.
- Now you have it!
- You are learning fast.
- Good for you!
- Couldn’t have done it better myself.
- Aren’t you proud of yourself?
- One more time and you’ll have it.
- You really make my job fun.
- That’s the right way to do it.
- You’re getting better every day.
- You did it that time!
- That’s not half bad.

Why is my initial reaction to almost all of these "Ehhh, go F yourself"? Corporate America & stocks that do what these are doing today might have something to do with it. Happy Thursday.

Monday, June 23, 2008

I'd Use My Hoe for More Than This

Guys, seriously. If you go to the trouble to steal a backhoe, of all things, smash it into a store, and steal something – wouldn’t you like to have taken more than just a pack of smokes & some Natty Light?

Regardless, cheers to you for style points.

The more perplexing thing to me, however, is this line:

“When officers arrived, two men fled – one in the backhoe and one in a car, police said.”

Last time I saw someone travel at a speed in a backhoe that could be defined by policemen in cars that travel up to 140 MPH as 'fleeing', I had just finishing bathing my unicorn in the sea of goody goody gumdrops. She gets sooo dirty sometimes.

Kudos, though, to the DPD for those cat-like reflexes and their lightning-quick speed. I'll be sure and remember that next time I need a handle of Kettle One.

Monday, June 16, 2008

My Dad Is A Fat, Lazy Bastard

Or apparently that’s what Hallmark thinks.


While this isn't exactly Dallas-specific, this city has bored me lately, so as I trolled through my token holiday card default store this past week, my alter-ego Cruella was in full mental swing.
She is the “evil” part of me that can turn any pure, innocent idea into something monetizable - like Father's Day, and she's also the part of me that can go from calm to headcase in about 3 seconds if someone is wasting my time.

Nevertheless, my big money idea this day wasn’t genius – couldn’t possibly be unique or even that profitable, but where the hell are the cards for the dads who aren’t lazy sons of bitches... the dads whose idea of a Father’s Day isn't to sit in a recliner with a beer, belly peeking out of a too-small T-shirt while getting off on having control of the precious remote for one day of the year.

I spent 45 friggin' minutes looking for the one card that actually had my father in mind. I didn’t find it. Because you don't make one, assclowns. So, I did your fucking job for you & wrote my own card.

Maybe I’m na├»ve, but I have a hard time believing that 98% of dads in this world have raised successful, ambitious children by scratching themselves while napping in a velvet, Coors-stained recliner with the flicker of a football game in the background... or that the majority of daughters purchasing a card for their fathers can find humor in a joke about credit card bills or asking for money.

Hell, Hallmark, maybe I've been wrong for all these years. Maybe there's no better way to say Happy Father's Day than "Thanks for never teaching me to stand on my own two feet, or never conveying the value of a dollar & a hard day's work, or never correcting my idea that credit card bills really don't get paid by the credit card fairy."

Call me crazy, but I needed a card thanking my white collar, non beer-drinking father for his dedication to showing up for thousands of sporting events throughout my childhood, for pushing me by asking “What happened to those three points?” when I brought home a 97 instead of 100, for challenging me to dream big and to dedicate all of myself to my passion in life, for teaching me that this is very much a run-on sentence, for giving me the tools I needed to make it in my career, in this money-washed & value-stripped city, in this life.

He is not a man of transparent connections, or of schmoozing, or of ass-kissing. He is a big thinker, a tough negotiator and a competitive sonuvabitch. He is an entrepreneur – a man whose every minute is precious and who gave many more of them to my family than he ever did to a beer or a recliner.

So, Hallmark – who the hell raised you? I want my 45 minutes back. And you are welcome for purchasing the blank card & doing your job for you – that’ll be $225. Yeah… I forgot to mention, I’m not free. And my hourly rate increases for morons. Daddy didn’t raise no fool.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Great STDs Think Alike

I'm guessing by now you have already seen this tidbit over @ Frontburner. So, thanks Kidd, for being here no longer than a few months and already finding your very own dirty pirate hooker to screw up what little hopes this city has at any kind of sporting championship in the next ten years.


And based on this wholesome pic and the myriad of strange you have left behind in your hayday, your game's synonymity to Magic's likely doesn't stop at the court.

To each his own, however. All I really need is to get a few more good years out of you... so, Vitamin C, my friend. Vitamin C.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Dear Jackie O, (Week 10)

A weekly (or not so weekly) installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
Did you see my sexy new headshots? They are H.O.T. Black Noir magazine, here I come.

Sluttin It Up While Layin It Down,
Pool-Party Patty

Dear Random Barely-Clothed Girl In My Pool Yesterday,
Sweet Lord Almighty. I’m not sure what was worse – you on all fours on the limestone waterfall while I tried to keep my dinner down, or the fact that I am 100% officially not stepping foot in my pool for the rest of the summer.

And I know you were hot on the trail of finding them, but the keys to the shame box surprisingly were not near your crotch – as your hands suggested many times. I’d check with the guy who convinced you to pose first, actually.

All my love,
Jackie O

-----

Dear Jackie O,
We stand firmly behind our recent decision to charge $15 per bag. Not to mention, we are quoting all over the press that this change “would affect fewer than one in four customers this summer and won't lengthen lines at boarding gates.”
So, nothing to worry about!

Pack Light,
Blanket ‘AA Representative' Not Actually Naming Any Real Person to Avoid Responsibility

Dear AA PR Department,
We aren’t that stupid. Seriously. Give me a little credit. The wait times won’t increase? Oh really.
Soo… more people will be carrying on bags now than previously, correct? And even before your piss-poor attempt at getting the entire industry to instate these new fees, it took for frickin’ ever to board a plane thanks to the slow-ass people in front of me trying to fit a circle into a overhead compartment square.

"It doesn’t fit, assclowns!" Keep moving. Yet they keep trying. And wasting my time.

So, where was I… Anyway, your assumption must be that if the lines don’t get longer, then people would have to get smarter.


Somehow, thanks to random aspiring-models who taint my pool & pictures like this, I don’t see that coming… ironically, though, this picture shows our world may be much more genius than we ever might have thought. The pool bitch, however? Still in the shame box.

All my love,
Jackie O

-----

Dear Jackie O,
Did you hear our computers were down all morning? We couldn’t check for warrants, previous tickets, or any gosh-darn thing. Sounds like a morning off to me! Thank God I don’t need navigation to make it to the Burger King on Lemmon.

Havin' It My Way,
Po-Po

Dear Thorns in My Side,
I’m aware. And you’re welcome. I was running a little late. And I’m on probation - as you know. To make it on time I needed to go 94 – and as Officer Philips so bluntly told me in May, you tend to not like that. If I have to get a little creative to snag a few extra minutes of sleep – damnit, I will. See you on my way home, beetches.

All my love,
Jackie O

Monday, June 2, 2008

Get a J.O.B.

Recent college graduates/pre-“I’m taking a year off to travel Europe & really find myself slash avoid getting a real job” ladies reveling in the summer sun, SMU 6th-Years struggling to get by on their measly 1K/month tax-free allowances forcing the Coors Light versus Fat Tire purchase, and chain-necklace-wearing fraternity meatheads grime-ifying up my pool with their spray-on tan residue.


This is the scene I was so pleasantly able to witness on Friday as I worked from home – kicking myself for having chosen a unit so damn close to the pool. As I tried to hide in my closet while presenting my new strategic plan via conference call to VP of my department, my ability to muffle the spring break-ish noise from his ears was somewhat lacking.

“What is that?” he asked. “Are you in a stadium or something?”

“Uhhm.. Hahhaha. Um, that is just the groundskeeper’s kids. He brings them with him on Fridays and they tend to be a bit rambunctious,” I lie, hoping he isn’t thinking I’m supplementing my Friday of working from home with a little Miami Vice cocktail & pool action myself.

As I hang up the phone, my first inclination is to open my balcony door, and scream expletives including “Get a ?#@*ing JOB & get the ?#@* out of my pool, assclowns.”

Then I realized the folly in my plan. I would be saving them a great deal of thought & time in deciding where to target a barrage of raw eggs.

The issue here, really, is who the hell are these people? Homeless people with access to Trina Turk swimwear? Recently laid off sales people? Or are they simply 25-year-olds still managing to suck college education money out of their parents who they have convinced an undergrad degree takes 8 years. Who knows, but the syphilis remnants likely left floating in my pool are the only telltale sign of any kind of activity involving hard jobs. Pun intended.

So as my day began to wind to an end, and I was so glad to have made it through yet another week of hellishly-busy work disallowing me from even thinking about blogging recently, I came across yet another sight to behold in my parking garage.
‘Is that girl …?’ I thought to myself. No. Couldn’t be.

As I got closer, and watched the puddle grow, her drunkass friend walked toward me on a cell phone complaining about being lost on the property, in the big bad scary world of McMansion apartments.

I sat there. Shocked. And what I thought couldn’t possibly be true, was. That bitch had just peed in my parking garage – not ten feet from my car.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked. Her lazy drunk eyes communicated her disinterest in me or my question, as she pulled her bikini bottoms back up and stumbled toward her friend.

At that point, I threw my hands in the air and called it a day.
And as I drove off to pick up my Potbelly Wreck, hold the oil, I thought about the lucky recruiters all over Dallas who are probably dealing with candidates like the Parking Lot Pee Bandit I had just encountered. What a treat.

Get excited, Dallas corporations. We are training up leaders here in this fine city. Elite education, I think they call it. True game-changers. Your HR departments have a lot to look forward to in the coming year, so Pony Up. Coors Light, 50K graduation-present cars & $1,000 allowances just ain’t cutting it any more.