All over the map

If you are either a.) compulsive, b.) weird, or c.) both (see "me") you might have noticed something new at the very bottom of this blog. There is a little map. It's a hit counter that tells me what part of the world you're in. For instance, I can see that I've had 3 different locations in Australia, of which only one can I account for. I'm known in two Scandanavian countries. And here and there around America. Welcome, weirdos!

Several points:

• Canada and Alaska: where you at? I will try to address your foolishness needs more effectively in the coming months, but I think you need to meet me halfway. So stop by, and just know that I am developing a bit about dried caribou meat that I think you might find interesting.
• Europe: What's up with you folks? I'm looking at just a couple of hits from Sweden and Finland, period. This leads me to believe that in order to "get" me, you have to be either severely depressed, an alcoholic, or a member of ABBA. And lord knows, I hope you're all three!
• Greenland: Does anybody live on you? And if so, are they so friggin' busy that they can't stop by? I don't know if you've been keeping up with your local news but if not, well, that's because there isn't any. You live in Greenland. Embrace how bored you must be and stop by. Ditto for any Antarctic science outpost dwellers. Take a short break from whacking off and/or battling space aliens who you have accidentally uncovered long buried in the ice and stop in, won't you?
• Africa: I know that for most of you, your life is a lot harder than mine probably. But there must be some sort of oppressor/overlord/warlord with a T1 connection somewhere out there. I certainly don't condone his/her behavior, but by god I will accept his/her attention. I'm trying to fill up the map here people. Help me out.

Now, I'm pretty aware that if these folks haven't stopped by they can't read my suggestion that they do so. And I'm also aware that if they ARE reading my suggestion to stop by, said suggestion ceased to apply to them in that moment. I'm well aware of the potential logic problems inherent in a post such as this. Do I care? Honestly, kind of. It bothers me a little. But it's nothing that eating another hundred Christmas cookies can't cure.

Open Letters re: the transit strike.

Dear People Walking in Front of me, Drifting Aimlessly to and fro on the narrow footpath on the Brooklyn Bridge,

 

Cut the shit. I'm trying to, you know, get someplace. Seriously. I'll knife you in your sleep.

 

Love,

 

-mac

 

************

Dear Brooklyn Borough President, Marty Markowitz,

 

Thank you so much for greeting all Brooklynites on the Brooklyn Bridge. My friend, Nicole, has a giant crush on you and I bet she wouldn't even mind the massive boogers you had all over your face. Hey, it was cold out there! Who wouldn't understand that? Keep up the good work, whatever it is that you do, Marty. We Brooklynites love the shit out of you.

 

-mac

 

*************

 

Dear Lady Whose Hat Had It's Own Beaded Dreadlocks Attached To It,

 

Wow. What an interesting choice. Somewhere between "member of the yaya sisterhood on vacation in Jamaica" and "Predator's head tubes". Keep that going. I needed that.

 

-mac

 

**********************

 

Dear Dog Poop The Color of Baby Aspirin,

 

Oh boy, what did your canine creator EAT, my friend? It can't have been healthy, is all I'm saying.

 

Concerned,

 

-mac

Things the Transit Strike has Taught Me

Ok, it's day two of me walking 90 minutes each way to and from work. I've learned a lot of things. Well, not many things. Hardly any things. But I find that if I start telling someone all the things I've learned, I'm generally more than able to BS my way through it. Here we go:

• 90 minutes is a long time. And it's even longer the second time that day.
• It's hard to feel bad for the transit workers when one of their complaints is about moving their pension from age 55 to 62. Yeah, uh, I don't get a pension when I'm a hundred and eleven. Cops get a pension because they get shot at. You drive a choo choo. Get back to work before I die of tired.
• When they tell you that the minimum operating temperature for an iPod is 32 degrees, they actually mean it. There is no Brooklyn Bridge exemption for that rule either. And I, for one, was disappointed. How am I supposed to be jaunty on my way to work when my tuneage cuts out right in the middle of the first act of HMS Pinafore? Uh...I mean...DMX. The first act of DMX Pinafore.
• If you haven't washed your tub in a long time (or, oh, let's say "ever") you can absolutely still take a bath. If you're tired and footsore enough, you won't mind the water's hue in the least.

Holiday Crap

I'm not even being metaphorical. I would like to talk about dung and/or manure around the Christian holy days. I hadn't intended to, but as soon as I wrote that subject heading, it's all I could think about. And it occurs to me that I NEVER get to talk about that stuff. Almost never. It just doesn't come up. I blame the people with whom I converse. What, you people can't bring it up even once? Like:

 

"Hey, where are you spending Christmas? Will you be near any poo?"

 

Or:

 

"Boy, I hope my grandmother doesn't make that pecan pie like she did last year. it was delicious, but it was just too heavy. And also, what are your thoughts on manure during this yuletide?"

 

I don't think it's too much to ask, folks. It's called common courtesy. Look it up.

No Secret Santa

So I just declined to enter the office Secret Santa...I was going to say "competition," but that can't be right. Unless it's a competition for the most awkward and uncomfortable exchange of gifts, in which case I think it totally wins.

 

Look, if something's going to be secret, shouldn't it also be shameful. I know, I know, Secret Santa IS shameful. But it's not trying to be so I don't think it counts. In my homeland of Connecticut we know shame like douchebags know wine vintages (sorry, fans of "Sideways" but if you met that guy in real life you'd get real bored, real fast.)

 

The point is this: If they had an office...again, not competition but...activity? Timewaster? If they had an office whatever called Shameful Santa, I'd join immediately. In a way, I'm already enrolled in that one. Shame is a gift that I give myself. I give it each and every day.

 

I will say that I am THRILLED to have turned down Secret Santa for the first time. At another point in my life I would have just signed up and spent the next week and a half dreading the dual terrors of giving something stupid to a stranger AND pretending to LIKE something stupid received from a stranger. But this year I am just looking forward to hearing whispers of "Here comes Mr. Anti-social" as I walk past the watercooler.

 

I'm just kidding -- I almost never walk PAST the watercooler. Most of my day is spent walking TO or FROM it to pass the time, or to the bathroom to take all of the watercooler water and release it back into the wild. Good bye, pee (nee' watercooler water.) I'll catch you later.

 

I'm losing it, people.

Ooops...

At my job yesterday, I accidentally cared. It was just for a short while but it was pretty unnerving nonetheless. Especially for someone such as myself who, you know, doesn't. Care, that is. I doesn't.

 

But I also don't want to look like an idiot. Even if I am one, I don't want to LOOK like one. (That's the Connecticut way. It's on our license plates.) And I sensed that I was about to look like a real moron. And so I - accidentally I'm saying - cared for a second. I was upset by the fact that this thing that I don't really understand wasn't working the way that I half thought it sort of should have been working. I'm not sure what it did, or what I did TO it.

 

This is my job. I do things that I don't understand to computer programs that I don't understand. And they pay me and give me sandwiches once in awhile. It works, ok?

 

I got over the caring. And I did it by going home and watching Sigourney Weaver slaughter aliens in her cryptically titled film, Aliens. I bet those Aliens care about their job. Fucking shit up and bleeding acid. That's their job. And they do it with aplomb. I rarely do things with aplomb, but I have aplombish aspirations. And I mean well.

 

Good night, ladies. Oh, and come see me at the Comedy BBQ tonight (details at the left.) Should be a fun one.

Important Meeting!

So I had to go to an informal lunch thing with the CEO of the company I'm working for. The idea was that he would explain where the company is headed to peons such as myself who are only there because someone made us go. But there were sandwiches. The sandwiches held me while I wept.

 

As he spoke about fiscal this and diversify that (to a roomful of people who just, you know, WORK here) and used 140 acronyms for things I didn't know about even had he used their unabridged names, all I could hear was, "The market has been really SANDWICH for the last few fiscal SANDWICHES. And I feel like our only route, especially with the SANDWICH server and the SANDWICH at SANDWICH hospital, we have to look to the POTATO CHIPS or we're going to have to FREE SODA," etc.

 

My greatest fears from kindergarten came back to me immediately. I was terrified that at some point he would say, "Jeff, what do you think about all of this?" Because the answer is 'sandwich.' I think sandwich.

So Close...

Last night, for the first time, I finished a novel written entirely in French. I was so pleased. But as it turns out it was in fact written entirely in French dressing.

 

It was still pretty cool I guess.

Congratulations, America!

Well, last week we celebrated our 1,000th execution! Well, of the "modern era." Wait, what does that mean? Oh, that's the past 3 years. Wow. They've been killing folks at almost exactly the rate and frequency at which I touch myself in an impure manner. I can't help but to feel that there must be a correlation. I hope I'm not responsible for the whole thing. That would be so embarrassing. More embarrassing than talking about whacking off on a public internet site with my picture on there and everything? Sure.

 

FYI - The thousandth guy was a murderer who had killed his estranged wife. And not for nothing, but I think maybe once you murder sombody you should probably get upgraded from "estranged". Seems a little dainty for that level of intimacy.

 

I wonder if the guards threw him a little party for being their 1000th customer? The least they could have done would be to have confetti pop out when they threw the switch. You know, something festive to celebrate the occasion.

Happy Thwart Jeff Mac Day!

I hope you are all having a lot of fun at my expense today, you bastards. Slowing down my train. Sending microwaves into my brain to make me almost go to work without my tie on. Walking in front of me so slowly that surely you must be getting some sort of cash for annoying me. How do they reimburse you for that? Is it by the voltage generated in my brain as you waddle up the subway steps holding BOTH handrails? Do you get a check, or do you get a voucher that you can use at the Thwart Jeff Mac store where you can buy car alarms, puffy coats that I can't navigate around, and cellphones that require you to scream in order to be heard?

 

I need a nap. One that lasts until I'm accidentally rich and never have to leave my home again. I love my home. And the second I'm rich, I'm totally going to become a reclusive mad scientist. Well, maybe not a scientist. I know all about how you have to have some background in "science" or "the sciences" to get that kind of a gig. But I'll go mad, though. I'll tell you that much. And I'll be wicked reclusive. Oh, it's gonna be so awesome.

 

"Wicked" and "Awesome" together again. I can hardly wait.