Amazon Part 1: You can't hide shame in a neck pouch

                I haven’t written a post in a while, and for that I am truly sorry... to the one person reading... you know who you are. So allow me to make up for it now by posting an extra long entry. I shall spin you a yarn my friend, so long and strong you’re life will be forever changed. And by that I mean I’m just going tell you about some spiders and stuff. But big ones. Like creepy big.

                With my sister and brother in law working in Colombia, I decided a little trip to go visit them was in order. I’d never been that far south, and it sounded like a party. So after losing an argument with my mother about what type of luggage I needed to bring (my choice of backpack was apparently not acceptable) I was off sporting a full set of proper luggage to the Amazon Rainforest. As part of the argument I lost included the use of a neck pouch. For those who are unfamiliar with such a thing (lucky people you are) it is a pouch worn around the neck to store your passport and money so as to ‘prevent pickpocketing’. Unfortunately, it also serves to inform everyone with the gift of vision that you have things worth stealing and are concealing in the bulbous pouch hanging around your neck. “Hey Carlos, did you see that idiot with the neck pouch?... Yeah, let’s stab him, take the convenient neck pouch which saves us the time of searching his corpse, and then stab him again while our amigos shoot wildly into the air while maintaining their angry stare and shouting...” Ecuador is a beautiful country, but stepping off the plane and immediately being swarmed by children trying to steal my shoes while fifteen men with rifles stared angrily at the jackass with all the luggage, I decided against the pouch. I think I made the correct decision. Mom was happy I wasn’t stabbed, but I think a little sad I did not use the neck pouch she was so proud of. But I digress.

                Let’s skip ahead. Looking at the Spanish language form I was signing, recognising only a few words (the Spanish words for ‘death’, ‘injury’, and ‘will not come find you’ were in bold and repeated several times) I thought ‘how colourful! This is adorable. They’re trying to scare us like the pirate ride at Disney world! We’re going to see some butterflies and shit. This luggage is heavy. Where can I buy a diet coke?’ (FYI Nowhere.) So I signed their cute little document in front of an old man laughing and a younger man looking crestfallen as he handed us galoshes and walked towards the ‘bus’.

                As the bus banged along the mountains, the trees becoming more and more dense and terrifying, a man at the front of the bus beer (I think? Could have been something else. The can had a picture of an Incan priest and he looked angry) in hand and drunkenly began yelling at my brother in law in a language known only to him. My brother in law being 6’2 and this man being at most 4’11 I was less concerned about the situation degrading... but then I remembered where we were and thought ‘he might pull out a knife and stab him!... Or throw a spider at him or something. That’s a thing right? Throwing spiders at people?’ and we asked the bus driver to handle it. In this case, ‘handle it’ meant literally Spartan kicking him through the door into the black jungle and driving off hours from any last seen civilization. That man most definitely died. The jungle swallowed him almost immediately. Come to think of it, I don’t recall him getting on the bus. I think he was just asleep on the bench when we left. I guess I’d be pissed waking up on a bus in the jungle hours away from where we started. Maybe we’re the villains in this story.

                The bus rattled to halt in the pitch black in front of a camp of what seemed to be a gaggle of 10-16 year old kids, who immediately ran to the bus, grabbed my luggage and literally ran, danced and swung into the trees with it. Now my first reaction was ‘well they were going to steal that godforsaken luggage eventually. Good riddance. I’m a jungle man now. Hand me a rock with which to fashion a loincloth (That’s how loincloths work right?)’ But the driver instructed us that they were just bringing the stuff to the camp. We stepped off the bus and it clanged away and a shadowy figure stepped out from behind a tree. I would call this person the ‘head boy’ as he seemed to be in charge. He looked at us with some type of contempt mixed with jungle-pity and motioned for us to follow. His Spanish wasn’t bad (I say boldly as an Irish Frenchman) and he gave us a tour of what I will call ‘the treehouse’. Different rooms, and huts in the trees, up against the mountain. It was rather impressive. There was a fire going in the main sitting area and ‘food’ was being served. I say ‘food’ as people were eating it, but that’s the only thing that would qualify it as such. We ate some as my sister asked what it was and the head boy replied that it was the tarantulas that reside under the huts. We looked over the near one and I shit you not, a giant fucking tarantula poking out from a hole under the wall was looking right at us... I think with malice. He then informed us that that was our hut, but not to worry, they don’t attack people. The terrified silence was broken by a freaky bird shriek by the village parrot who I swear was smiling eerily.

As I lay on top of the ‘bed’ listening to the horrors of hell crawling around under the largely gapped ‘floor boards’, thinking that there was no way we would survive the next day, I slept like a goddamned baby. First and only time in my life. Maybe it was the knowledge that I was surely to die in the immediate future, maybe it was the ability to dismiss all concerns and stresses of normal life due to the previously mentioned looming death, maybe it was that creepy parrot who liked to watch me sleep and lick its beak while groaning... I can’t say for sure. But my God did I sleep well. Like a real person. It was magical.

Part 2 (Have you ever seen a snake fight a spider and lose? I have.) Tomorrow.

a turtleneck does not make you 'deep'.

Occasionally, I may be guilty of ‘overreacting’. I’ve been called a ‘drama queen’... only by one person, but perhaps it rings true. It’s difficult for someone who flips tables and shouts ‘GET SOME’ at the drop of a hat to not be a little dramatic occasionally. I actually flipped two tables and kicked a cat while writing that sentence. Anyhoo, sometimes things get to me, like that looney tunes dog, or someone using the word ‘wuvable’, and justifiably I tend to react strongly in those moments.

Some people get drunk in a liquor store parking lot, or cut themselves on a video blog, but not me. I mean who doesn’t love a good blog cutting amirite? But there are more productive ways to get the ‘drama’ out. For example, one could plan out the perfect bank robbery, or steal your own car (side note, doing this in a parking lot in broad daylight is hilarious... ski mask and murder gloves... got the whole nine. Watch the cops’ faces when you explain.) for example.

At this exact moment in time I am rather anxious. Pacing back and forth, carrying on hypothetical discussions out loud as I pace. Debating strongly whether or not to drink the last can of diet pepsi now, or save it for the morning, knowing that whatever decision I reach, I will be disappointed. You know I once knew a person who would actually suggest ‘open the can, drink half, put it in the fridge and drink the rest in the morning.’ To anyone who thinks that’s a good idea, stop reading this blog immediately. It’s not for you. You want the emo teen cutting himself blog.

Also, not directing this at anyone in particular... Diane... but burning oneself with cigars, and testing other common torturing methods on oneself is only emo if you’re doing it to be emo. If you’re goal is to train yourself to withstand torture, then it’s not emo. It’s Awesome... Also did you notice that the last three letters of awesome are emo backwards?... MIND BLOWN! And If you burn over the scars that are already there then I really don’t see the reason to get uppity. Besides, now I know I can at least withstand basic tortures. Burning, waterboarding, being forced to listen to Rebecca black on loop, and ofcourse being forced to read my own blog. That one is reserved for special monsters.

Then we will fight in the shade

So it turns out Spartan kicking your Persian assistant while shouting ‘THIS IS SPARTA!’ is frowned upon by HR. So now there is a new job opening at Awesome Inc. as a result of the settlement. The position of Executive Assistant has the following requirements:

1 – Must speak English, French, Ancient Hebrew, Latin, a little Greek and Russian. I don’t speak Russian, but some people do and I want to know what my comrades over in sadville USSR are up to.

2 – Must be able to take a kick to the sternum. Nancies need not apply.
3 – Must not ask questions.
4 – Must be familiar with all office related software.
5 – Must be able to keep secrets.
6 – Must be able to use search engines efficiently. (This means can google...don’t know why HR has that, but here we are.)
7 – Must be able to handle a straight razor. (I likes my office shaves)
8 – Must love dogs.
9 – Must hate cats.
10 – Must be willing to exchange the word ‘yes’ in every day usage to ‘I shall kill many Persians’.
Send your CVs along.

Some may question why I’ve gone through 15 assistants in the last 3 years. Some left to pursue other opportunities, some left with broken sternums. All I’m saying is that I am a great person to work for. Expect to learn something new every day. Yesterday I taught my assistant why silver is a holy metal. The day before that, I taught him why emo vampires are so popular with the ladies (It’s the dead eyes). I’m a veritable cornucopia of information. Also, I always smell super nice. Sort of my thing. Apply now!

I would wear anti-social on a T-shirt

Why is it considered unhealthy to be ant-social? Oddly the general view of society (the thing one is being anti-about) is that it’s so unhealthy that no sane person would actually accept any sort of anti-social leanings. I call shenanigans. First of all, f^&k society. If that’s anti-social, then so be it comrade Stalin. Sometimes (almost always) I don’t want to go to your tam tams and wine tastings. I want to sit in my apartment, in my chair, doing my work (killing zombies) and what is wrong with that? Maybe I want to anger walk around my neighbourhood? Maybe I want to play anger ball at the gym alone. Is that unhealthy? Maybe. But if it has no impact on my ability to socialise when needed, how unhealthy can it actually be?

For those that know me, I am an outgoing sociable fellow who is the life of the party and facilitates fun for everyone around him at social gatherings. For those that know me really well, I am a remarkably anti-social person who hates social gatherings and would rather be alone or with one person somewhere else, doing anything else. I think people should just be grateful I make the effort to at least act like a sociable person. Others are genuinely entertained by me, and everyone has a good time. Hurling the term anti-social at me (or ‘anti-soci’ as now two people have dubbed it) as a means of trying to ‘coax’ me out of my shell miss a crucial piece of the Newsy puzzle. My shell is there because I put it there. It took many years to construct and I love it. Love the shell.

That isn’t to be confused with not wanting to make a difference in people’s lives, or even interacting with people in a meaningful way. I love those things. Hell I’ve changed the world without anyone knowing it several times over (YOU’RE WELCOME). And people LOVE me. Whether it’s me or the version of me presented to the world on occasions they see me is irrelevant, as the love and impact is genuine.

For example, this morning on my way to work there was a nice older lady at the shop I buy breakfast at and she didn’t have the money to pay for her sandwich. I told the cashier to add to my tab, smiled at her and left without talking. WHY IS THAT NOT GOOD ENOUGH? I have to engage in a big long discussion about something? I’m pretty sure that made her day. She was super happy and grateful. Even if was some sort of elaborate sandwich scam, who cares? 3 bucks to make someone that happy is a good deal regardless of intent of the one being assisted.

Yes, occasionally my anti-social tendencies shine through in slightly more aggressive ways, such as firing someone for opening my door without knocking first, or the time I tried to suffocate patrick with a plastic bag for breathing too loudly (he was shirtless at the time as he had ‘sweated through his shirt’ walking to work that day). But all in all, I think it’s the right level of just not caring about nonsense.

Also is it me. Or are girls about 50 times chattier than guys? I might be behind the times on this observation (usually the case being locked away in my anti-scocial cave) but seriously. Have you ever actually listened to some girls talk? They can literally go on for hours, without saying one actual thing. It’s actually fascinating. I know there are some guys who can do that too, but guys are easier to deal with. ‘Hey dickbag, you’re talking but not saying anything. Stop it. Also your collar seems to have popped itself. Fix it.’ And they grumble and unpop their collar and bam problem solved. Can’t do that with girls.

Maybe it’s because I instinctively sort of stare people down when they try to talk to me and I’m uninterested. Even when i am interested. I just like staring through people. Always unsettles them. Maybe I'm not anti-social at all. Maybe I'm just a dick. Or maybe (most likely) I'm just awesome.

I hear the train a coming.

Who doesn’t like trains? I don’t. And I’ll tell you why. Yes steam engines and the romantic idea of the train is lovely. Capturing the imagination and being reflective of a time past, where adventure was to be had riding the rails to adventure and all that... but today we are left with Via rail (Canada’s Amtrak for our American imaginary readers) and they make me want to just die. I could have gone super colourful and detail exactly how they make me want to die, but having had to deal with them at all makes me just so weary to the bones, I just want to lie down on the track and let the train run me over (as it would be a via train though, odds are that the train would be late, on the wrong track, and derail if there was a slight breeze that day). Hey look at that, I did have enough in me to describe a colourful dramatic death scene. Celebratory shots of office whiskey all around!

So we get a call from Via Rail. They want our services. Awesome. They want a big campaign. Awesome. They want to start right away. Awesome. They have no money to pay. Awesome. They want to pay in via dollars. Awesome. Free travel using via anywhere!...Awesome. Right? As this occurred in August and I was planning on lots of trips to and from Toronto and/or Ottawa, a couple of grand in free travel vouchers seemed helpful, so agreed to it I did. Like the gifted fella I am, I thought ‘it’s Via! Free travel would be super helpful! The world is great and I am awesome. Look at that dog! Hooray for everyone.’ but as it stands now, they are just slightly better than useless, and I’m pretty sure making the deal in the first place has resulted in my coworkers losing the little respect they had left for me (which at this office means weakness is detected and leaves someone open to challenge you for dominance, claiming your job and heart (consuming it for strength) as their own).

We don’t physically get the vouchers, we get a credit. We have to call ahead and schedule the trip with them and confirm all the details and the total amount of the cost of the trip will be deducted from the total balance. The total balance being divided among the providers of the campaign, us being only a part. And we have to adhere to the restrictions of usage for the vouchers. And we have to give percentages to people despite it not actually being money, but carrying a value. Long story short, Via... seriously? It’s like you want me to claw my own eyes out. So your business model includes marketing plans that revolve around paying your vendors in coupons and then not honouring said coupons in any reasonable way... thereby ensuring no further contracts being accepted by those same vendors... It’s like you hate yourself and are trying to actively see your own destruction.

Well, the silver lining is that I don’t actually have to go to Ottawa or Toronto. I hate both cities quite a bit. (I can hear the collective ‘HEY! ... Toronto’s... not that bad...’ from the dozen residents who actually care enough about their city to defend it’s honour... sort of) One more than the other, but that’s neither here nor there (subject of a future post certainly), and certainly doesn’t detract from Via’s complete waste of my time and energy. Just clawing at a W wherever one is able to be found.

As I sit here gnawing on the heart of the office Indian (why the quiet one would choose to challenge me I have no idea), feeling his strength flow through me, I realise that I may need to just not talk to clients anymore. I love too much. That’s my problem.

Random Musings on a cold octorber night.

Sometimes the world hates you. You can either run from it, or stare it down and tell it to go f%&k itself. Now the latter option is my preferred way to go as running and burying your head in the sand is for cowards and Kenyans. The go f%&k itself option has several branches, however and one must be careful not to choose the wrong one. Game of chess it is. If chess involved table flipping and fires. Which it does when played properly... ‘grandpa’... There’s the standard stand your ground, don’t give an inch and stare them down. There’s the softer give a little, remain true but some compromise is warranted if their intentions are reasonable, and so on and so forth. My favourite, and ‘go to’ option however is the rather unpopular disproportionate escalation.

I say unpopular in that others aren’t fans of this type of conflict resolution. The idea of making the repercussions for any infraction so unbelievably horrifying that no one would dare cross you ever may seem initially appealing and fun for all, but in reality it takes a lot out of you. Patrick for example made a silly comment about a cousin of mine and in response I nearly collapsed his trachea and made him apologise to her and her family before removing my foot from his neck. ‘That seems like a reasonable response’. And you would be correct pokaroo, but that wasn’t the resolution. That was simply the immediate response. (he still claims to be unable to swallow properly) The actual response came somewhat later when his protein powder was cut with estrogen and ecstasy... His iron pumping sessions at the gym degraded into crying humpfests with Technicolor dragons pretty quick... Anywhoo, that was just a playful response to a simple comment. Had he actually had malicious intent and not just made a thoughtless comment, he’d be a lady right now, on the sex offender’s registry, waking up without eyelids in a room filled with coke and strangers blood to the sounds of approaching sirens and all the doors and windows locked.

Now Patrick is afraid to even take a French fry when offered. His response is ‘I’m going to take a bite and you’re going to r$%^ my mother’ to which I respond ‘I would r%#$ your father. Just to prove a point. You could live with it if it was your mother, with counselling and all that, but your father, you’d have to see him everyday and look into his dead eyes... imagine it Patrick...’ And he does and he gets a little misty. Bless his little heart. What can I say? Hobbies are fun. And God knows if and when I settle down, there won’t be as much time for this type of thing, so I should really get this stuff out of my system now.

I know what you’re thinking; ‘Newsy, a big important awesomeologist working for a middling media company like you must have swarms of ladies all over you all the time... surely that settling down time is rapidly approaching?’ Good question pokaroo. Well I’ll tell you, I like to employ the sharp stick strategy. ‘Wait... the sharp.. what?’ that’s right pokaroo. You’ve no doubt heard the saying ‘he’ll have to beat them off of him with a pointy stick!’, well i’ve taken it to heart. Some call it a broken broom handle I’ve whittled into a point, but after a few sharp jabs in the ribs, they call it whatever I want. And what I want it called is pickles. ‘...you named your giant shiv pickles?...’ That’s right pokaroo. And pickles is goddamned magic. Sharpstickery is a wonderful word you should all get used to several readers as I make up words a lot and they’re all awesome.

I am a wordsmith. Also other types of ‘---smith’ but wordsmith is definitely at the top. Maybe only surpassed in fame by my status as a ‘revengesmith’ after ‘incident orange’ (to be discussed at a later date), but that’s neither here nor there. Often, I find that the English language is limited in its emotional range and have to draw upon other languages to find the appropriate word. For love, naturally I drift to French. For anger, Klingon. However there are times where no language possesses the words which adequately describe whatever I’m feeling at that particular moment and I am forced to create a new word. Frustrangerful was a fun one. But sometimes, better than creating new words is cramming two existing words together. Portmanteau’ing’ as it were. They are awesome. They are portmanteawesome. Recently, as I’ve been spending a great deal of time with our lawyer Ralph (who happens to be black. And aggressively so) I’ve taken quite the shine to portmanteauing ‘black’ and whatever other word I’m using. Usually descriptive words of Ralph himself. For example: angry, lawyer, awesome, attractive, aggressive become: ‘blangry’, ‘blawyer’, ‘blawesome’, ‘blattractive’, and ‘blaggressive’. I would go on and on (and i certainly do at the office), but as my nonsensical ramblings are best kept from the world it’s best I wrap up and bury them in a place no one will ever hear them... this blog. So keep it to yourself pokaroo. Our little secret... or blecret... cause pokaroo is black. If you thought he was white (or a big green giraffe sort of thing) then you’re the racist. Look at yourself in the mirror before throwing stones glass house.

I would like to take this opportunity (cause that’s totally what it is) to send my congratulations to my friend and coworker Eric and his new wife Diane, as this past Saturday, they tied the knot and are now happily married. Woooooo!

Dear other people i hate today

Dear Client Company representative. I received your email regarding us taking hours and hours out of our week to compile a progress report for you on a system we developed for you that we STILL do not have a finalised contract for. I am amazed that you are able to make it into work each morning pushing your MASSIVE BALLS in front you in what I can only presume is some type of wheelbarrow. It’s liberating to know that we have the type of relationship that you can feel so free to talk to me about anything and that you aren’t the least bit embarrassed by your institution’s gross incompetence and negligence of their responsibilities at all so as to inhibit you from making demands such as progress reports on what up until now can only be described as our benevolence and extreme good will towards you. It fills me with happiness. Not at all murderous rage that will see me videotape *** EDITED OUT FOR EXTREME CONTENT****..............................................................................................................****EVEN MORE EXTREME*****.........................................................................................****GOOD GOD THIS IS MESSED UP****..................................................................cut off so you CANNOT STOP WATCHING. Perhaps we should go to lunch to discuss this ‘progress report’? You need it by when? Aren’t you just precious.

Dear every employee I have. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Myproblems are sooooooo important and the welfare of the whoooooole company is on the line and everyone should be helping me handle these things or else everyone’s fuuuuucked!!!!’ and in a way you’re right. All your problems are important. And yes, any one of you drops the ball and we’re all just a wee bit fucked. Stop, take a deep breath and hold it... Keep holding.... Keeeeeeeeeeep hoooooooolding....keep holding... I hope you’ve died. Problem solved for everyone. If one more of you comes into my office thinking your problem is bigger than any of the other 50 problems that require immediate attention I may leap over my desk and beat you to death with my lovely bronze statue of Sir Gallahad, oddly enough there to remind me not to beat people to death. 

Dear landlord. I pay you rent, I don’t complain, we’re not loud, we don’t make life difficult for anyone. I even pay the stupid water tax that doesn’t seem legal as we have no faucet in the office, and the communal bathroom of ever office on the floor doesn’t seem to warrant 1500 dollars a year in water tax. When one of your idiot tenants who decides to do business with the door permanently opened next to the communal washroom tells you that the nice tenant down the hall has a lot of people in the office and they make noise when they go to the washroom, tell them to jump up their own ass and die. Problem solved. Asking an office full of people to keep quiet when going down the hall to go to the washroom is idiotic. Absolutely Sir, we like to go in teams so we can high-five and shout encouragement at each other while we pee. That’s how we roll. Didn’t know that was frowned upon. We’ll totally check it at the door.

Dear idiot tenant down the hall. You are a therapist. CLOSE YOUR DOOR when in session. Also, getting people to stand on your couch while yelling at a pillow isn’t therapy. Everything about you makes me embarrassed to be in the same building. So we make too much noise in the hallways on our way to the bathroom do we???? Well guess what dickbag? I’m going to do things to you now. Congrats.

Dear accountant. If the first 10000 times you ask me if i have the invoice for X resulted in me responding no, i gave you all the invoices I have... what the fuck makes you think this time I’ll respond differently? Oh why yes, I hung on to that particular invoice because I doodled something amusing in the corner and like to look at it whenever I’m blue. I GAVE YOU ALL THE INVOICES FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! Just wave your magic accounting wand and fix whatever needs fixing. I’ll make you a new fake invoice if you need it. We need to meet three times this week because it’s year end? Awesome. Sounds like a party. Mind if I bring a loaded revolver so we can play a game in between receipt explanations? And yes, I will keep writing hilarious things in the memo section of Patrick’s cheques (nipple reduction surgery) because it tickles me and that tickling is the only thing preventing me from actually becoming some sort of antichrist.

Dear 6 lawyers. Stop charging me thousands of dollars. What happened lawyers? Have you ever actually looked at the expression on my face in our meetings? I look like Patrick when you call him ‘pie’trick. But all the time forever. Also, I’m not an idiot, you don’t need to rephrase everything you say to put it in simpler terms. I guarantee I’m smarter than you. If I had to explain what digital signage is fifteen times to you, let’s not pretend that the concept of a shotgun clause will fly over my head.