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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

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Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Advice from Moob

So this morning I was standing at the omelet bar in the hotel and I noticed that if I so chose, I could have shredded chicken as a filler. And that got me wondering: isn't that just wrong? I mean, let's think about that. First the chicken lays the egg. A human comes along and takes that egg. Then he kills, plucks, skins, boils, and shreds the chicken so that my chef here can stuff it into the egg. Isn't that like some kind of poultry cannibalism?

Wouldn' that be like dipping your burger into your milk before you ate it?

Things here have been going well. I'm apparently creating a name for myself within the company. I only wish it were a good one this time. I mean, who the hell wants to be known as Moob Pussmeyer? It's like being in grade school again. heh.

I'm sitting in my assigned office for the day, M. Pussmeyer written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the wall next to the door. I've intermittently entertained myself by calling the facility from my cell phone and asking the receptionist to page Mr. Moob Pussmeyer, just so I could hear the page over the building's intercom system: "Mr. Pussmeyer, telephone call please. Mr. M. Pussmeyer. Please dial the operator." Next month, since the receptionist is young and likely hasn't seen Porky's, I'm going to be Michael Hunt for the day.

So anyway, just before she left for the night, Andrea -my colleague- comes into my office here, all in a huff. She had left the room for a few minutes to go change in one of the vacant patient rooms because she'd flown into town that morning to attend our financial reviews and had a date that night with a friend in the city. She returned, however, without her evening wear, but with her knickers in a twist nevertheless.

"Looks like I need to go shopping," she fumed.

"Why?" I'm such a conversationalist, ain't I?

"My hairspray exploded all over the inside of my bag."

"Ouch. Clearly you are in violation of one of the vital tenets of air travel: always pack your toiletries in a plastic bag."

Her face twisted into a look that either said she was about to make a smart ass comment or had suddenly realized that wind she just let pass wasn't all air. "Well, the obviousness of that statement as I stand here now didn't cross my mind when I packed at 4am this morning."

I shrugged "well, look at the bright side: now your clothes will be firmly pressed throughout the entire evening"

"Actually, I'm going to leave now and go buy new ones."

"You could always wear those. They'd just be all stiff and full bodied. You know, when I was doing art, I used to use hairspray to set the colors of the chalk so they'd never rub off. Now your clothes are permanently colorfast. Yay, you!"

"You're a dork, Mr. Pussmeyer."

She began packing up her computer again while I returned to slashing the budgets. Psha! Food? They don't need food. Jell-O costs, what, fourteen cents a pound? And water's free! $40,000 for food. What the hell is this, the Ritz Carleton?

"You know," Andrea said conversationally, "I've used hairspray to get ink out of fabric before."

And what follows is a moment that speaks to how I get my reputation:

"Oh yeah? Well maybe you could use ink to get the hairspray out."

Apparently, I have all these great genes, but they're all recessive.

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