Dogging

This past Saturday my wife and I went to the Antrim Animal Sanctuary.

God, was it horrible.

Within minutes, Ruth was in tears and I found myself choking back serious emotions. It was the saddest thing I think I’ve seen in all my life. (Dogs behind bars. Barking. Being all sad and shit. Ouch.)

As a farm boy, I had so many dogs (most run over by my mom- through no fault of her own. Darwin answered many questions as to why Skippy got run over (he was stupid)) that I’m used to being semi-sort-of-kind-of-you-did-what? detached from why, when, where, howsat? from the natural selection type of world we all live in. (Did any of this make sense? No? Well, you apparently didn’t grow up in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado. That’s your tough luck.)

But then we came to the understanding that the Antrim Animal Sanctuary DOESN’T put dogs down. Volunteers come and walk the dogs, give them food and show them love. And that…well, that made me want to cry even more.

This is a FANTASTIC charity.

Anyway, we went to the Animal Sactuary and saw the cutest little bastard (well, since dogs don’t get married, I’m assuming the tag is true) you’ve ever seen.

Part Jack Russel, part Collie, he’s 100% smarts and probably 100% trouble.

But that’s OK.

Because, as of Friday, he’s ours.

Please everybody… support your local animal shelter. These animals did nothing wrong and don’t deserve to be punished.

We had to go through a screening process–which is more that your average slutty whore 14 year old trailer trash bitch has to go through (Britney Spears, I’m looking your way…).

This poses many questions but I don’t have the time to answer them.

Wish us luck.

And let’s all hope that Sparky takes to our humble little home.

Here, Sparky! Here!

Holy Crapolla

Since I’ve had my new cell/mobile phone I’ve been pretty good about NOT using it for assinine bullshit dumbass utilities like ‘texting’ and ‘calling 911 in a dire emergency’. (Actually emergency phone calls over here are 999… weirdos.)

Unfortunately, my wife (who uses her phone to text things like ‘I love Coldplay’ to her imaginary ‘cousins’) called me at work today (so everyone, just EVERYONE) could hear the ring tone that I thought was (secretly) meaningful (to me) but everyone else in the whole wide world thinks is annoying.

The results were about 10 people shouting and whistling as I answered my phone.

I had to run to the private ‘meeting room’ where no one could hear me.

And for what reason was my wife calling?

It seems the cable was out. Of course she wouldn’t just simply and unconditionally BELIEVE that the cable was out (which is what I told her) so she had to call her parents on the other side of town.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m in a weak, lonely place at the moment but I think I know when the goddamn cable is out.

She apologized when I got home.

I was right.

That’s sort of a good feeling.

Self Fullfilling (sp?) Prophecy (sp?)

Today I had the grand honor of listening to my manager and the head ‘Account Director of Advertising That Will Blow You Away’ tell me that my personality is, in essence, a total vacuum on the spirit and energy of the studio in general and the company as a whole.

I was informed that the fact that I take a nap occasionally at lunchtime (on company sofas) was ‘sucking the life out of the studio’ (there was no regard paid to the fact that since I stare at a fucking monitor all day I might deserve a bit of an eye-rest at lunchtime– which, in essence is my own goddamn time.). That shit don’t stick, apparently.

I was told I’m not ‘energetic’ enough not ‘happy’ enough not full of enough ‘bullshit’ (my interpretation) to make everybody around me applaud and cheer every time I enter a room.

Well guess what asswipes, the reason I’m a writer is because I’m NOT good at the ‘press the flesh’ lifestyle.

I don’t kiss ass.

I don’t ‘rim’ the client.

I can’t fake a social orgasm and I don’t believe that my being ‘passionate’ about advertising is going to make a public service announcement sound any more important (it’s a goddamn radio ad you fucktwats!).

I learned to write as a way to express myself because I’m not so hot in the pressure cooker of social bullshit.

So now I’ m stuck between a job that I hate and having to pay a mortgage. I’m looking for work but I can’t decide if I should look for another copywriting gig. What if they’re all assholes? Does that mean I have to keep switching jobs? I gotta find something safe and secure.

I always think back to what my friend Bryan said once, “Don’t you think you should be excited about a new job? Especially on the first day?”

I’ve never been excited about this job. Not on the first day. Not ever.

I guess it’s time to leave.

But we all knew that.

Now it’s time to find something that I love.

I just hope it’s out there.

And on a seperate note… please vote for Letter to America and maybe even my own humble blog for the Irish Blog Awards. I mean, I might not have anything else to do in March.

(God I hate whoring myself out.)

January Blues

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I can’t write.

I won’t bore you with details of how I know because:

1. Details are boring.

2. I spend most every day of my working life being bored out of my fucking mind so why would I want to do it on my free time? (Actually, I’m writing this at work. (Gotta have a page with actual words on it in case someone sneaks up behind me and sees me surfing the Job Finder. (Also, I intend to play Nintendo when I get home tonight and blogging digs into my already too precious spare time. Two birds with one stone!)))

But the fact remains—I can’t string two words together.

It’s blue…I mean true.

I guess.

I mean, I’ve been told by any number of people at work (well, one person anyway) who outweigh me by a hearty 200 pounds and, apparently, Weight makes Great, that I’m useless so who am I to argue with my slim and stealthy 180 pound frame (If you’re thin you can’t win!)?

It’s a shame that I feel so healthy and vibrant all the time and that I fit into my clothes without them being specially made. It really is. And I feel really bad when stories of this certain loudmouth circulate around the studio about them recently getting stuck in a chair at a restaurant.

If you personally knew who (whom? (See, I can’t do anything wright…RIGHT)) I’m talking about you would most likely be in tears by now wishing you had been there to help him (or her) out of his (or her) chair by tipping him (or her) over and prodding him (ok, it’s a ‘him’) with a dinner fork wired to a car battery. I know I certainly feel that way.

To me, this battle simply isn’t worth fighting. I’m not going to get in a pissing fight. I took the job because it was the first thing offered to me. I knew what I was getting into and I know when it’s time to get out.

What I don’t know is what I want to be when I grow up but I sure don’t want to look like the guy up there.

Shit. Too late.

Yes, I’m really sick…

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Here’s a delightful picture my wife took of me while I was languishing in severe pain and uncomfortability this week. (I’m sick. Oh so ever sick…)

My payback is that she is now sick herself.

Of course that’s not a payback…it’s kinda like an extra punishment. It seems she’s sicker than me (how is that possible????). So it’s up to me to drive to the store and buy her Lucozade and anti-shit-your-pants medicine.

Have you ever wished you were the sickest?

Me neither.

This blows.

Here Kitty Kitty!!!

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(Thanks to Brianf. I got nothing to say about this…except it’s Saddam’s cat. I’m laughing. But maybe I shouldn’t. I’m against the death penalty…but the cat’s playing with his inanimate legs *snorf* . I shouldn’t laugh… but I will. Stupid cat.)

Bite My A U.S. of A.

Today, I got my tax forms from America.

And boy, did it piss me off.

America is the ONLY country in the world that taxes their citizens when they live in another country. Let me repeat that. America is the ONLY COUNTRY IN THE WORLD THAT TAXES THEIR CITIZENS WHEN THEY LIVE IN ANOTHER COUNTRY.

Again, this is just another fucked up, selfish, bullshit policy of the USA (God love it) that really pisses me off. And again, it’s just another reason that all the other countries of the world have to hate the U.S. of A.

I seriously thought about renouncing my citizenshipt for tax purposes until I learned that Mr. George W. Bush the Asshole of the Universe had passed an an unwritten law that said anyboy who denounced their citizenship for tax purposes could NEVER visit the United States again.

Please, people. Don’t you see what a shit head this fuck-way Texan is? I mean really? Seriously, don’t you see?

Really?

Oh well.