Random babble

It's a very, very, very slow day in the ol' cubicle. There's not a whole hell of a lot going on today, and as I type, I am fighting off sleep even after consuming a diet cola. So I figure today is as good a day as any to write down thoughts as they come to me.

I like summer a great deal, but I hate the effect of the heat on co-workers' choices in footwear. I work with a lot of females and practically all of them break out the flip-flops as soon as the temps rise above 65, so all I hear all summer above the hum of the printers is slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-SLAP-SLAP-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. However, the advantage to hearing footsteps all day is at least I have advance notice of when someone's about to walk past my cube, and I can switch to an important-looking window. Two of my co-workers, however, make absolutely no noise when they walk, and it doesn't help things that one of them is the Boss. It's fuckin' freaky how silently he glides along like a ghost. I'll suddenly hear him say "hi" to someone and think, "where the fuck did he come from?"

I really wish they hadn't started locking the unused office upstairs. That was a great place to just go hang out for a few minutes—cool, dark, quiet, and empty.

OK, I just got back from having some cake in the break room. That was a nice little diversion. Now back to the blog.

I love the look and feel of the famous Louis Vuitton Monogram pattern. Whenever I see someone carrying a LV handbag, I have to admit the immediate impression it gives is "luxury" and "wealth," but right after that comes the assumption that it's a counterfeit. Seriously, every single time I see a woman displaying her LV purse, I think "ooh, pretty," and then "oh, fake," and I feel a little sorry for her that she's not achieving the desired impression with her little status symbol. Even if everything else about her screams money, I still assume the bag is a knockoff. Out of boredom I looked for LV for sale on craigslist. One item for sale was one of those gaudy multi-colored monogram pattern purses, but in the photo, it was being "modeled" by a light brown hand with long press-on nails, attached to a meaty arm with an ugly tattoo on the inside wrist. The description read, "selling cause i really dont have no use for as to i carry a diaper bag now thanks." Classy, ma'am, classy. Is the diaper bag Burberry plaid?

One time I was in a grocery store and saw a pair of really, really put together young ladies, about 22 years old, festooned with costly-looking jewelry, fashionable designer clothing, and toting Louis Vuitton purses, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Talk about trying way too hard! If they had been any fuller of themselves, they would have been classified as black holes. I also quickly felt very sorry for any man who had the misfortune of dating and/or marrying them.

I can't stand Ke$ha. She is a sloppy drunk whore slut and sets a terrible example for young women. She represents the worst an otherwise smart and attractive woman can do to herself, namely, dress like a skank and sound like intoxicated Valley Girl trying to imitate a gangsta' bitch. She's an icon of everything wrong with white girls age 18-25: self-absorbed, alcoholic, shallow, promiscuous, and generally tacky and tasteless.

Justin Bieber is an annoying androgenous douche. He looks like a white trash 12 year old girl with a bad haircut, and yet teenage girls all cream their jeans every time they see him. Plus the little shit probably earns more money taking a dump than I do in a year. I wish to slap him.

I went to Wrightsville Beach again this past weekend. The highlight of the trip was witnessing a drunk asshole get in a fistfight with a bouncer at Jerry Allen's and subsequently get tasered by the W.B. police. I found out that the mysterious cheering that woke us up at 2:30AM Memorial Day weekend was due to a streaker—a naked man running down Lumina Avenue—who also got tasered. We got in a good bit of beach-sitting time on Saturday, but storms and dangerous lightning kept us off the beach Sunday. However, I was most content just to sit and watch the storm from the comfort of the air-conditioned condo, and stare in bewilderment at the idiots still on the beach who were letting their children splash around in the water while lightning bolts shot across the sky even after the beach patrol told them repeatedly to vacate for their own safety.

I must confess something: Second to winning the lottery jackpot and retiring, I'd like to win a million-dollar prize, buy new cars for me and my wife, get a few Brooks Brothers suits and other costly garments, and just flaunt that shit around the office, but keep the source of the money a mystery. Imagine my co-workers' consternation and resentment when the guy half their age rolls up in a Benz wearing a $1200 suit, checks the time on a $2,000 watch, and takes notes in meetings with a $300 pen.

I've been getting more and more discontented with my neighborhood. I see more and more children roaming around, which is bothersome enough, but most of them appear to be of questionable to outright trashy pedigrees, which makes me fearful if we have a child of our own while still living in our current house. I can't have any children of mine associating with the white trash brats who always ride their damn bikes in the cul-de-sac and talk loudly while walking their dogs behind our patio fence. Until our situation miraculously improves, all I can do is create within my home's interior a refuge from the trashiness outside. I do what I can to make the interior reflect our own superior breeding, with fine furnishings and artwork in abundance, creating the environment of a proper gentleman's house in the city, where I reside while conducting business between leisure trips to our house on the coast.

I shall conclude today's entry with the sentiment that goes through my mind countless times every day: Fuck work. Mother-fuck work. I fucking hate working for a living. I hate having to drag my ass to this fucking office and piss away 40 hours of my life every week in exchange for an insulting salary while the Boss comes to the office 2 days a week in his Lexus. Every day I dream of the day my ship comes in, when I can clear out my cubicle and tell them I'm out. As for the customary two weeks notice—the folks they laid off the last two years didn't get one fucking day's notice, so I fully intend on returning the courtesy.