Mr. Friendly Says So

MRF's First Poetry Slam

2009-04-09T14:30:00.002-04:00

Don't blame me. I just checked out this site. The resulting post came from my muse.

SUNY poets without jobs.
Dirty ripped jeans.
They’re such slobs!

Twenty stone lass reads her book.
I look around for the Gong Show hook.
Warbling love sonnet about her ass.
Forty stanzas later, I’d take the gas (pipe).

She can’t be that bad; surely I jest
I’ll quote her work as a test.

“I love my big fat rear. It’s where I poo.
I love its smell. And ask me if I care
If you hate its pimples, hair, star tattoo.
You can only hope (beg) to see it bare.”

Next writer for our enjoyment
Is some army man post deployment.
I really try to catch his vibe.
Too bad he’s such a shitty scribe.

Barking rhymes is his plan:
He screed begins: “Man!
You don’t understand!
You didn’t fight in Vietnam!”

Next up is a smelly sapphite.
Talking trash, spouting shite.
She hates men as it should be
Her looks will drive us up a tree.

She begins and ends with random words.
In between, she mouths turds.
“Lady.
Bug.
Razor.
Slit.
Hate.
Named for preconceived gender roles.
Revolution”

But none compare to our next wannabe.
He has nineteen years of life memory.
He isn’t aware of what he lacks
I’d like to hit him with a car jack.

He turns his baseball cap to face us.
His subliminal signal to get Ser-i-ous.
I start to rise, I can’t sit still.
I know should I stay I would kill.

As I rise, the screed begins.
An endless litany of social sins.
I look around for a baseball bat.
I should show junior where it’s at.

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

Until my muse strikes again, peace out.

A fan letter

2008-11-20T13:24:00.005-05:00

Dear Mr. Fulci,
Accept my apologies for missing your opus, Zombi 2, upon its theatrical release. In 1979, I was both car-free and yet too young to view the carnage (plus nekkid ladies) legally. Thirty years hence, I no longer have legitimate excuses (although two children under the age of seven) under my roof might qualify. I hope I don’t catch you too late to express my highest praise for you unparalleled work.

My favorite aspects of your film include:
1.) 3.5 seconds before a character in the movie gets the eponymous “shot in the head.”
2.) Your depiction of two of NYC finest investigating an abandoned boat in the harbor while steaming on their own tug which inexplicably flies a non-U.S. flag. Just for the hell of it, whose flag is it?
3.) The utter girth of our first full blown zombie. I, for one, grow weary of the usual anorexic type living dead. Your 500 lb. behemoth was a welcome change.
4.) Boat chick’s diving outfit or lack thereof. Why didn’t Jacqueline Bisset think of that?
5.) Zombie vs. Shark. Underwater! To a draw. Unbelievable. This scene alone puts you in the Orson Welles’ class of movie directing.
6.) Drunken Doctor’s wife shower scene. Ah Lucio, thank you for showing her goods before she gets the old “splinter to the eye” treatment.
7.) “Splinter to eye” treatment. Second only to my aforementioned “zombie vs. shark” fight scene in my top 10 favorite movie scenes.

8.) Drunken Doctor waking up…fully clothed…on the beach…on the zombie island. No where, and I mean this with affection, has so little logic been displayed on the big screen.
9.) Two African Americans in the movie set on a Caribbean Island only one of whom actually lives on the island. Well done.
10.)The NYC Medical Examiner taking time out of a busy zombie autopsy to give his student shit about a scalpel’s and the student’s sharpness . I must concur with the M.E. that if we don’t take care of the little things (instrument conditioning, homework); we won’t take care of the big things (avoidance of zombies).

In conclusion, I hope you are well and enjoying the fruits of your labors. I hope it’s not too late to laud you for your great work. I hope you don’t get anything caught in your eye.

Your newest fan,
Mr. Friendly

Taking One

2008-08-20T14:51:00.002-04:00

Since I was thirteen years old, every time we played McGowan Hardware, Terry would pitch. And every time he pitched, I got plunked. That works out to two times a season and three seasons, six bean balls. One pitch got me in the shoulder, one in the thigh, three to the back, and finally, the topper to my ass. It was bad enough that the guy was successfully throwing at me but, he threw the baseball as only adolescent Cro-Magnons could. “Hulk throw ball. Crush puny human head,” I thought I heard him rumble more than once from the mound. As luck would have it, he missed me once. The ball sailed about six inches over my head, hit the plank board backstop on the fly, leaving a three inch dent there. I knew this because, as our catcher, I inspected the wall between innings.
I found it hard to think that Terry felt some deep seated hostility towards me. In the three years we spent at Cohunk Intermediate Baseball League, we may have exchanged eight and one half words (grunts count fractionally). Standing at first rubbing my thigh, back or ass, I would ponder the mystery. I would stand there waiting for the coach’s sign, which seldom came, to steal second against the vaunted McGowan Hardware nine. Maybe I breached some baseball etiquette. Perhaps I forgot to shake his hand after they shellacked our team again. Could the hostility stem from butting the hot dog line? Was I too tall? Too short? Not worthy to be on the field? I had no idea. The only certainty was that I should never, ever dig into the batter’s box when facing Terry Bove.
Indeed I am no angel. More than occasionally I considered letting my bat “slip” in Terry’s general direction. Reasoning, or so I thought, that my flying aluminum Adirondack would be construed as a defensive measure against more talented and hostile adversaries. However, more fearful and judicious voices in my head restrained me.
A cinch for last place, our team, “Mabel’s Sundries,” entered my last year of organized baseball by meeting very low expectations. Two men in scoring position and no outs, there they stayed until the end of the inning. A pop out to shallow left field turned into a double as the fly ball would fall between the shortstop and outfielder who subsequently fought over who would throw the ball back into the infield. I too made remarkable mistakes, both at the plate and behind it. While my .222 average was mediocre in anyone’s book, my .432 strike out average opened many eyes to my true putridity. When Ricky Mason, the amazing limping first basemen for the opposing Berdar’s Bakery, tried to steal second in our first meeting of the season, I managed to bounce my throw before it reached the pitcher’s mound. I outdid myself the next week by hitting the batter’s club with an errant throw to third. These plays and others less ridiculous are recorded in my mind’s highlight reel. From time to time, I review them and vomit.
You might expect a more understanding and grounded adult manager would find some humor in our baseball escapades. There might be such a man. A man with beautiful wife and two happy kids. He enjoys his work and attends church every Sunday. He’s a Boy Scout headmaster that no one thinks anything but wonderful about him. Alas, Don Sanders was not him. Coach Sanders was former semipro standout who settled down, got a job, and had a family. He was in his mid-forties, yet maintained many of the abilities which made his glory days, well, glorious. Standing about 5 foot 10 inches, his shoulders almost managed to be as wide as he was tall. Popeye would envy this man’s forearms. They were massive; I could see him ripping the top off a can of spinach. His legs were just bigger versions of his arms. Don’s kid was on the team and lacking his father’s gifts, I imagined Dad coached Mabel’s with the hope that he could get Donny Jr. some playing time. Unfortunately, our pathetic play proved that there were bigger fish to fry.
By the third week of the season, Coach Sanders had seen enough. After another inevitable and yes, ignominious blowout, he held a meeting after the game. His face burned with shame and the clenched tendons in his neck told our team that now would not be an excellent time for levity. We gathered in the dugout with heads hung low in disgust. Standing at its entrance, Coach Sanders gripping the roof with his great ape arms and began his speech.
“We’re going to have practice on Memorial Day. Be there or hand in your uniform now. Our play is like crap and I don’t want to manage a team that doesn’t want to get better. We will have batting and infield practice, but mostly we are going to work on fundamentals. That means hitting the cutoff man, getting in front of the ball, making strong throws, and basically, changing our attitude towards this game. I can’t take it anymore boys. We are a laughingstock and I’ll be damned if that will continue. See you on Monday at 11 sharp.”
Sheldon Lisp, our starting right fielder, thought this was a good time to manage the manager’s schedule.
“My mom and her boyfriend wanted have a cookout Monday. Is it ok if I leave practice early?”
While twelve pairs of his teammates’ eyes peered at Sheldon with incredulity, Sanders, expecting some lame excuses, fired back calmly and evenly.
“Sure, Shelly. You can leave early. You can leave right now. But, please don’t bother coming back. Oh, and by the way, could you take some of the boozers, potheads, and girl chasers with you? I am sure your Mommy has a few extra wienies for your friends that don’t want to play better.”
And at that debate ended. The following Monday practice was full of griping young men. Resigned to my fate, I took my position behind the plate for batting practice. Before I could get into a squat, Sanders barked out: “No, uh-uh, we are not hitting yet. Coach Stram will conduct infield practice for the next hour. Get to your positions. Coach Stram, if anyone of our lovelies doesn’t get in front of a ball or doesn’t hit the cut off or doesn’t call for a fly ball, make him run a lap around the field. Another lap every time he does it. If he drops while running laps, leave him where he lies.”
Turning to me he barked “Catcher’s practice is in the bullpen. Bring your gear and I hope you wore your cup today.”
Thankfully, I had.
Watching Coach grab a bucket of balls, he strides over to the bullpen. It was then I remembered that Coach Gargantua used to pitch semipro. Putting two and two together, I cursed my fate and shambled along behind him.
“All right. We are going to practice digging balls out of the dirt. Get your mask on and get behind the plate,” he recited his request, expecting no complaint. Taking my punishment like a man, I gave him none.
The first pitch was a hard “12 to 6” curve about a foot wide of the plate. It bounced about five feet in front of home and to my right. Since I was leaning on my haunches, I offered a very feeble glove move to block the ball. Coach Sanders yelled “Don’t relax back there. Get on the balls of your feet and move your ass!”
The next pitch was much the same only to my glove hand. In response, I tried to “Ole” the pitch. Ole was trying to catch the ball by waving your glove towards the ball similarly to how a matador waves the cape at a bull and precisely the habit Sanders was trying to break. “One more wave at the ball and you will be running a very long time. Get in front of the pitch.”
Next came the fastball. Ninety miles an hour, right in front of me, and airborne for fifty feet. The ball hit a rock in the bullpen and bounced over my glove into the chest protector. I felt a direct hit to my solar plexus. I fell forward, gasping for air. The ball, miraculously, stayed in front of me.
My coach offered the following praise, “Nice job. That’s what I’m talking about. Here comes the next one.”
And so it went. After half an hour, I thought he had enough and we would move on to some skills training. That’s when Coach Sanders managed to squeeze a low hard one between my thighs, pass my cup, and into my prized family jewels. When the stars cleared, I heard him say, not very concernedly, “You all right?” Since the searing pain prevented any communication on my part for a minute, I assumed my position. I can’t be sure, but I thought I heard him say “Good man.”
After another half hour, we stopped. While we gathering the stray balls about the bullpen and I appraised my various bruises, he muttered to me. “Look, the other kids look up to you. You have to make an effort or this whole team is going down the shitter. You did well towards the end. Use your quickness to stop the passed balls. Anymore catching balls with one hand and we’re going to have to do this again. Understood?”
I was tired and a little embarrassed by the need for Coach’s special attention. In his own way, though, we both knew that this was his peace offering. If I agreed to play harder, he would stop breaking my back. With a little luck, he believed, we could make our team a little more than cannon fodder for the rest of the league. Beaten like a rented mule, I considered the alternatives and said “OK.”
Practice was only beginning. For our next exercise, Coach gathered the team, save Jimmy Beales and myself, at first base. Jimmy was sent to second and I was behind the plate. Before he went to the mound with his bucket of balls, he left me with some words of advice. “Look, you have to stop thinking about your throws. Just get up and throw the ball. Honestly, you can’t do any worse. You’re already starting to worry about your them. How you’re gonna be embarrassed in front of your friends. How your dad is going to hate you. How the girls wont think you’re cool. Knock it off. Just throw the ball to second.”
The session began unmiraculously. My first five throws were wide left from two to three feet. After the next throw sailed over Jimmy’s head, I bounced five more ten feet in front of the bag and into right center field. Red with rage and shame behind the plate, I tried to settle myself down. And there, in the middle of all my anger and embarrassment, I had an epiphany. A little nugget of truth covered in batter box slop:
“Who fucking cares?”
And I paused for a moment to mull over my deep thought. What in God’s name do I care what my moronic teammates think? In a couple of weeks, I’ll never see them again. Hidden from their derision through no proximity, what I should be worrying about is how best to intimidate these guys and how to end this particular drill. Quickly, I strategized. Given my current state of mind, some action utilizing my hostility would probably work best. In that moment, I stopped worrying about what these losers thought and I began to visualize throws bouncing off their heads…one at a time.
On the next pitch, my throw reached second on the fly, on time, but just a little high. I darkly grimaced behind the plate. The next throw was on the money. Runner is out. And so was the next. And the next. Feeling the rhythm of Coach’s pitches and the runner’s break for second, I could get out of my stance and unload each throw quicker than its predecessor. Even errant throws, by the end of the drill, were getting the runners because: one, they weren’t that errant; two, I was giving Jimmy plenty of time to adjust to a less than perfect throw. Eventually the rhythm became mindless, receive pitch, out of stance while getting ball from glove, cock my arm and unload. Again and again.
“Whatever the hell you’re doing back there, keep doing it,” Coach Sanders said. Artful encouragement from an artful man.
“Not a problem, Coach,” I tried to say without my anger.
“Get in the outfield for batting practice,” Coach bellowed from the mound.
From left field, I watched my teammates hit. Occasionally, a ball would make its way out to me but I was mostly occupied with thoughts of how best to stop these drills from ever occurring again. I stood out there and let my rage roll over me: rage at myself for getting in this predicament, rage at my teammates for their crummy play, but mostly rage at my opponents, rage for those bastards who think they can roll right over my team. They think I’m their patsies. They think we have no pride. Well, the other teams are screwed. Let them ridicule Mabel’s. Let them say anything they want about our play. But God help them if they try to steal. And have mercy on their souls if they lose their helmet in the process.
Our next game was Berdar’s again, with Donny Jr. on the mound no less. I am sitting behind the plate as the game starts grimly determined to collect payment from those attempting to steal on Donny’s weak stretch delivery. When the first two batters made out, I thought I would have to wait until the next inning to unleash my fury. But Ricky Mason, with his uncanny leaden legs, walked on four pitches. I go out to the mound to talk to Donny.
With my mask still on, I say “Donny, don’t pitch from the stretch. And fire the first one right down the middle.”
“No way. My old man will kill me,” Donny whispers, ever the courageous one.
“Look, I have a plan. Just hurry up and throw me a fastball, then a pitch out.”
“You think old lead ass on first is going?” Donny caught on.
“He will if we ask him to.” I left the mound.
Donny waited for me to get behind the plate before he set for the pitch. With the batter in place, he threw with a full windup before anyone realized what he was doing. Strike one. The first complaints came from our dugout.
“Donny, what the hell are you doing? You have a man on first. Pitch from the stretch or you’ll be in right field faster than you can say ‘Dad, I hate baseball.’” Coach Sanders yelled and, in the outfield, Shelly’s heart skipped a beat.
I threw the ball back to Donny and the batter got in the box. Immediately, Donny stepped on the rubber and prepared to pitch full wind up again. I smiled from behind my mask and watched ambulatory impaired Ricky take off on Donny’s first movement. Without looking, Donny fired three feet wide of the plate where I waited. Ricky hadn’t reached the midway by the time I threw to second. Before he was ten feet from the bag, Jimmy was waiting for him with the ball. The inning was over.
Donny and I entered the dugout together. From the third base coaching box, Sanders promised us endless days filled with hundreds of laps if we didn’t start listening to him. I kept my head down and smiled.
The game was tight for a couple of innings, but Mabel’s would not be denied. It seemed that my rage infected the rest of the team. It was as if, collectively we surmised our opponents’ ability and desire as slightly more pathetic as our own. And, as you know, once you reach that understanding, there is nothing to do but the lay the hammer down on your competition. Our box score became littered with decent plays and some timely hitting. For the first time that I could remember I had no passed balls, three assists, and two hits. The final score: Mabel’s 6, Berdar’s 3.
After the game, there was no post mortem, no skull session following ignominious defeat. Sanders just told us we did well and we should continue to focus on those things that led to our victory. That was easy. In two short days we faced McGowan again…with Terry Bove on the mound.
Our lineup remained the same except that Jimmy and Donny would switch positions. Jimmy Beales was one of the best players in the league and gave our team a marginal winning chance with his pitching, despite the talent letdown of Donny at shortstop. I am not sure if the Berdar’s win made my teammates a tad delusional or if the stark reality of our plight made gallows comedians of us all, but the mood in the dugout was jovial. The other Mabel’s players optimistically thought that perhaps, just perhaps, lightning would strike twice and we could win. Maybe this was the start of a new, brighter, winning era for the league punching bags.
In the top of the first, I got to bat with no one on and two out. Stepping into the batter’s box, I already new what was in store for me. I stepped lightly. The first pitch zipped right over the outside corner. Strike one. I was unfazed. Terry couldn’t resist. His second pitch hit me square in the back.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t look at the mound.
And I sure as hell didn’t rub my back. I took my base and planned.
In some other world, maybe fifteen year old baseball players act like they know less than their coaches. A more effective and less fun world, it must be. I stood on first and looked at Coach Sanders. With Jimmy at the plate, he didn’t waste anytime with signs. I would not be stealing. Or so he thought. I thought I would give Jimmy two pitches.
At 2 and 0, I took off. McGowan’s catcher had no chance. Terry had bounced a curve in the dirt and I stole second, standing up. The 3-0 pitch was a fastball that Jimmy fouled directly behind him. From second, I watched Terry set for the stretch pitch, pretending to peer in at the catcher’s signs. I can’t be sure but, I think I saw sweat on Bove’s brow.
With the count 3 and 1 with two out, conventional wisdom dictates that runners on second not try to be heroes this early in the game. I had different scores to settle. Not even bothering to look at Sanders, I took off for third. The pitch hit the inside corner and I was safe by a mile. While I was dusting myself off, Coach said, “Do that again and you’re sitting.”
“Won’t happen again,” I smiled. “I think I have their attention though.”
“Don’t screw up.”
“C’mon Jimmy. Knock me in, man.”
Nowadays, you can pay big money in consultant fees in order to learn how to relax. In that moment, I think Jimmy and I reached a mutual understanding that when you have nothing to lose, the job at hand becomes much easier. Given prevailing opinion, we were expected to fail. How nice it was to see our opponents, the guys who couldn’t be bothered with our pesky presence, shouldn’t be concerned with our crappy team, become a little worried. It was in that moment that I learned that even the most accomplished amongst us might wilt under a little bit of pressure.
Terry fired a fastball down the middle of the plate and Jimmy deposited it over the left field fence.
Of course our story does not end there. There wasn’t much more scoring; Terry settled down and McGowan managed to squeek a run. At the end of five and a half innings, we led 2 to 1.
Jimmy pitched a pretty good game but our opponents were beginning to catch up to his fast ball. Their first two batters lined out sharply to left and center. With two out, they sent up my nemesis. Terry Bove relaxed at the plate. He didn’t look at me or the people in the stands. He just watched Jimmy, imagining the next pitch. I figured we would start him off atypically with a curve in the dirt. Jimmy missed but Terry didn’t. That curve landed on the center field fence and Terry stopped running at second.
Next to the plate was McGowan’s first baseman, Jack Watson. On the very first pitch, Jack screamed a shot past Donny into short left field. And the next few seconds I remember as if it happened today.
Three...
On the sound of the bat, Terry took off. He rumbled halfway to third as the ball zipped by Donny. From my vantage point, I could see he intended to round third. By the time our left fielder threw, Terry was rounding the bag.
I begin to see the short term future. If Donny cleanly retrieves the ball and realizes Terry is on his way to home, he quite possibly could throw home. I throw my mask aside and wait for the throw to get into the infield. It’s only moments…
Two…
Terry rounds third without looking, he is headlong for the plate. He doesn’t acknowledge anything but the current mission, score. And if that means Hulk must crush some puny human (that would be me, folks), so be it. Donny fields the ball cleanly and I don’t even wait for him to assess the situation. At the top of my lungs I cry out “Don, get it home.” I make sure I am blocking the plate.
Don turns and realizes the magnitude of the moment. Without hesitation he responds like a seasoned pro. He fires a seed at my chest…
One…
Terry is ten feet from me. He is running hard and heedlessly. He is ready to bowl me over. In his eyes, I am not another guy, someone you might share a joke with or a beer.. I am an obstacle to be overcome, or in this case, flattened. He lowers his shoulder and I finally, finally, finally, after three long years, dig in on Terry Bove. Because today kiddies,
I already have the ball.
Zero
Jammed in my glove and protected with my right hand, I tag at Terry as he lowers the boom. His shoulder meets my jaw while my hands, arms, and torso push him off the base path. We land in a crumpled heap in front of, but not touching, home plate.
Standing up first, my first, my only concern, is the umpire. What’s the call, man? He’s looking at me and waiting. I realize he doesn’t see the ball and I know I’m home free. Holding it now with my thumb and forefinger, I show the blue suit that I never, ever, intended to drop that ball.
“You’re out!”
I wish I could say the crowd went wild. Perhaps they did. They should have. It must have been a hell of a show. Nonetheless, I was only interested in slapping hands with my fellow Mabel’s morons. We did it. We showed those opposing jackasses that we can’t be trifled with. It’s Miller Time Everybody!
They talk about men who share foxholes and K rations form brotherly bonds. I never served our country and the only thing I know of that approximates that feeling may be that night. We were shamed and ridiculed and finally, redeemed together. I will remember each of my teammates, my brothers in athletic shame, for the rest of my life. Even Shelly Lisp.
The celebration on the field eventually ran out of gas. As was the custom, we crossed the field for our usual after game ritual: the handshake. Walking over, I felt Terry owed me some answers. I mean, it was three years of hell, what was his reasoning. When I got to Terry, I had to ask:
“Terry, good game. Why do hit me with a pitch every time we play?”
“I do?”

On Tuesday Afternoon

2008-07-14T15:17:00.002-04:00

It’s Tuesday afternoon, around two, and the heat from the window units and the winter sun blasting through the blindless windows, beat me into submission. I sit at my desk and count the forty-first drop of sweat running down my brow. My shirt is ruined. My previous efforts at manipulating the window heaters were futile. I am too tired to even try now. Running a sleeve over my forehead, the back of my hand measures my brain’s temperature. I am burning up. Her phone rings in the next cubicle and my thoughts are fever dreams.

Whose muffled voice is on the other end? No, wait a minute, I think she’s speaking. What is the big secret? Drowsy, I focus on my spreadsheet. Ten seconds later, my head reels from a number jumble. Heat calls me to sleep and my eyelids flutter shut. I am going down, just for a minute, I’m sure.

Did she just say my name?!

Now I’m awake and listening. Indiscernible words frustrate me. Bending my head forward, towards her cubicle wall, my thoughts twirl in a whirlwind of secret agents and paranoia.

“The answer to your question is yes.”

What was that? What did she just say? Who the hell talks like that?

There was a time when she just started, I tried to be nice. One Friday, some of us were headed out for a beer after work. Asking her if she would like to join, her one word answer was “No.” Not “No, thank you.” Not “I’m sorry but I am meeting my boyfriend for dinner.” Back then I pegged her as simply odd. Did she think I was putting a move on her? Does she want to keep her work and personal worlds separate? Does my breath stink? Finally, I chalked it up to her social retardation.

Similarly, I asked her a question a few minutes ago. She was whispering on the phone then too. She held up one finger in my direction so, I waited at my desk, unsuccessfully maintaining conciousness. It’s getting too late to get back to me dear. I think about going without her but I figure that would be rude. I wait for her to poll her constituency telephonically. What does he want? Be leery of him. He only wants you for your body, money…Anybody’s guess.

The functional design dances on my desk, trying to grab my eye. I consider opening it and giving it a once over. It’s too damn hot and I can’t be bothered working, so damn tiresome. Better left for a day when I am not so irritable.

Receiver lands in its cradle quietly as if she doesn’t want to betray her conversation. That rouses me. May we get on with it now honey? I wait a second then three hundred more.

My head lowers to my chest. In a moment, there will be no denying sleep. That is when her chair moves. Quiet footsteps herald her approach.

“Hey, what’s up?” So she hadn’t heard my question.

“The heat’s putting me to sleep. Would you like to get a Coke?”

“Never drink the stuff. Enjoy though.”

Denied company again, this sad, friendless office drone enjoys his cold caffeine alone.

First Rule of M80 Club: There is no M80 Club

2008-07-05T12:26:00.001-04:00

Watching TV with my son yesterday, I turn on the 24 hour news station. It's a normal holiday. Light on the real news, the crews travel to Troy to get the lowdown on any Fourth of July scofflaws. I quote the local constabulary:

Troy Cop: Yeah, it's gonna be a long night. We'll be chasing kids of all ages 'til midnight and then some. Yeah, it'll be rough but you gotta remember we're acting in the public's safety whether they know it or not. You don't got to be a rocket scientist or nothing. All you gotta do is take a couple of probability courses down at the University at Albany and you'll know all you need to know: Light up enough firecrackers and you're bound to blow your FUGGIN arm off!

And there you have it from Mr. Safety himself. All you need to know.

I trust none of my readers blew a fuggin limb off yesterday. Have a nice rest of the weekend.

Reply To All

2008-07-03T09:26:00.001-04:00

To: MrFriendly@MrFriendlyInc.com, MrFriendlyClient@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientSupervisor@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientManager@Client.com,
MrFriendlyClientDirector@Client.com

From: LowlyITTrash@Client.com

Subj: Your most recent screw up

Dear Mr. Friendly Sir,
Your latest database design has many flaws. I have doubts with respect to and regarding implementation of your schema change in database CLIENT1. PLEASE CHANGE AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE!!!

Hoping to correct your flawed thinking,
Lowly IT Trash

Ummmm, ok. Today, class we discuss the most egregious problem with the email above. Let’s begin with a multiple choice test:

Is the most egregious problem?
a.) Pidgin English
b.) Failure to describe problem.
c.) The assumption that your humble correspondent is responsible for unspecified problem.
d.) All of the above

Take your time, I’ll wait.

If you said, “e.) The Mofo just emailed my entire supervisory team,” you would be correct. This mode of correspondence is rife with problems. I will try to list them here:
1.) It alerts my client that I may not be, Horrors!, perfect.
2.) It shows these same people that you are not an English wordsmith. Fortuitous enough, that is not my problem.
3.) It opens the door for the old “REPLY TO ALL” rebuttal, which I am quite skilled.

To: : LowlyITTrash@Client.com

CC: MrFriendlyClient@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientSupervisor@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientManager@Client.com,
MrFriendlyClientDirector@Client.com

From MrFriendly@MrFriendlyInc.com

Re: Your most recent screw up
LITT,
Not quite sure which problem you indicate. Please elucidate.
Yours in Christ,
MRF

Note class, my effective use of the open ended follow up. The more rope I give the mope, the better he might hang himself. The reply to this email is not significant. Suffice it to say that we go back and forth like this for a couple of days only to find out that my learned colleague failed to check his facts.

I point this out for one reason only. When composing your screed detailing your officemates’ deficiencies, you may not want to share that with management. My reasoning is, of course, bulletproof.

Suppose you are wrong. Do I really need to detail how your managers will now sympathize with your adversary? Or how they will reevaluate their opinion on your interpersonal and technical skills? Do I? I’m asking the questions here? ANSWER ME!

This works in everyday life too. Suppose you receive the following email:

To: Joan@yahoo.com, Bridget@gmail.com, Tony@somecompany.com, AlphabetSoup@earthlink.net, mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com, dralan@healthco.org,
Tanya@someschooldistrict.com, mykidsaremylife@nys.org, ihatetheworld@ymail.com,
Ireallyjusthateyou@ymail.com, Mom@hometownemailservice.com, Mary@gmail.com

From: SomePainInTheArse@gmail.com

Subj: New Email Address

To all,
Please note my new email address. Take a moment to update your address books. You may also reach me at
HOME: 888-xxx-xxxx
OFFICE: 888-xxx-xxxx
CELL: 888-xxx-xxxx

Or if you feel like writing,
OFFICE EMAIL: SomePainInTheArse@myoffice.com

Please respond to this email so I can rest easy tonight knowing that all my friends know I changed my email address.

Needfully yours,
Some Pain In The Arse

All right nothing odd here except the strange request for a response. That’s probably the source of another post. Let’s get to the reply I got this morning.

To: SomePainInTheArse@gmail.com

CC: Joan@yahoo.com, Tony@somecompany.com, AlphabetSoup@earthlink.net, mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com, dralan@healthco.org,
Tanya@someschooldistrict.com, mykidsaremylife@nys.org, ihatetheworld@ymail.com,
Ireallyjusthateyou@ymail.com, Mom@hometownemailservice.com, Mary@gmail.com

From: Bridget@gmail.com

Re: New Email Address

Dear Pain In The Ass,
Thanks for the note. How do you like gmail? I simply love it! Please write back and let me know.
I am always thinking of you.
Love,
Bridget.

Stop. Right. There.

Now we all make mistakes. Since 5:45 this morning, I have 32. But, but, but…no big mistakes. No snipping the blue wire when I meant to cut the green wire, no calling the wife by the wrong name, and certainly no mash notes to former or current lovers posted to 467 of my best friends. With that in mind, I feel empowered to share the following bits of wisdom.

A.) 1.) a.) iv.) Always, always…ALWAYS check who will receive your letter of love.
B.) 234.) z.) mcmvxxxii.) Pain In The Ass may wish to reconsider his/her relationship with Bridget. I mean, come on, would you share a bed or a joke with Bridget.

That is all. No need to reply.

Me Dear Sainted Mother

2008-06-30T13:15:00.001-04:00

Another story refused from some godforsaken flash fiction site. What the h*ll do they know?
--MRF

“Oooohhh, I guess I’ll go to da store meself,” moaned Mrs. O’Leary. “Too bad dough, cause me corns are killing me weary feet. Oooooh, how I wish my children loved me more than they do. Oooohh, ohhh, oooo. Me poor feet.”

Tom O’Leary rolled his eyes. So practiced he was at this he thought he could spin his orbs in their sockets. Too impatient to try today, he answered his mother. “Mom, what do you need from the store? I’ll go get it.”

“Ooooohhhh, don’t bodder yourself Tommy. I’ll eat da dog food here. Not that Fagin is going to need it anymore since you put ‘im down. What is it dat you said he had?”

“Rectal cancer Mom. Jesus, I’ve told you that a million times! You can remember ass cancer, can’t you?” He was here five minutes and losing his grip. He needed to get out of this house. Now. “Do you have a grocery list Mom?”

Mrs. O’Leary nodded towards the refrigerator. “Ooohhh, don’t go taking the Lord’s name in vain in me house Tommy. He may strike you down and take da house and me wit’ you. And tank you so much for going to the store Tommy. If I was to wait on your ten brothers and sisters, the police would be finding an old skeleton stuck to the recliner come this spring. Oh, and remember the Lactaid. Regular milk gives me da runs.”

Tom, retrieved the list and, with his back facing his mother, rolled his eyes one more time. It felt like his corneas would touch his optic nerve. He said nothing.

Trudging through the snow, Tom got nearly everything his Mom wanted from Coccas Corner Store. It was snowing like a bastard, maybe two inches an hour. Lugging four stacked and packed bags through hellish weather made Tom’s walk home ponderously plodding. That was all well and good, less time spent with the old bat. Since he was doing chores for her, his venial resentment wouldn’t need mention at confession this week. He walked home thanking God for the opportunity to offer his suffering up and dreams of sunny climes.

From a block away, Tommy could see his mother, bad feet and all, shoveling the walk in front of the house. Under his breath, he raced through an act of contrition until his rage subsided. He wished his eyes would stop throbbing.

“I was just clearing a path for you, Tommy. God knows I don’t want you to slip and fall,” she fretted. “How would you work if you were laid up for who knows how long? Ever since that, forgive me Mary Mother of Jesus, that bitch left, you have no one at home to look after you.”

She put down her shovel and followed him into the house. Tom’s eyes felt as if someone lashed them with barbed wire. Mrs. O’Leary’s coat wasn’t off when she said “Oooh, you didn’t forget the tea now, did you?”

The one thing Coccas didn’t have. Tom closed his eyes and counted to ten. “We can have coffee Mom,” he offered, hoping that caffeine might relieve his pain.
“Oh oh oh, I don’t have any of that either,” she moaned.

“I’ll ask the Marinellis if we can borrow some.”

“Those garlic eaters won’t give you nuttin’. Better to go wit’ out. I won’t drink it if you get it.”

“I think you might Mom. I’ll make it the way you like it. You’ll feel better.”

Returning from the neighbors, Tom hurriedly made sure his mother was comfortable, brewed the coffee, and downed two extra-strength ibuprofen. After serving her, he waited for her inevitable nod off.

Mr. Marinelli found the martyred Mrs. O’Leary’s stockinged legs sticking up from a snow bank in her back yard two weeks later. The police immediately suspected Tommy and began their search. Tommy, clever boy, figured the authorities would never find him in the Grand Caymans. And even if they did, a local priest guaranteed that God absolves guilt. All Tom had to do was ask. He did that and Tommy knew he was forgiven because his eyes never bothered him again

This is not a Poker Blog

2008-06-30T13:13:00.000-04:00

If you are pot committed before you look at your cards, should you even bother taking a peek?
--MRF

I have no idea where the BigMan lives. For the purposes of this recap, that is a good thing. TheHost doesn’t know either and that’s a bad thing, he’s driving. Good thing MarkyMark navigates, although my faith in him is waning. He seems a little sketchy on the details.

“Yeah, this turn, take a left…I think.”

And so it goes. The return of the Colonie Three. Totally clueless and ready to tilt.

The BigMan has a lovely home, lovely wife, lovely kids. Unfortunately, my story isn’t about them. I could cobble seven hundred and fifty words together about domestic bliss but it wouldn’t ring true. I mean, for the moment, this here space is a poker blog.

Shall we get to it?

Deciding whether or not to call Mr. Vegas’ push on your big blind while your humble correspondent is the short stack doesn’t even rate as a bibliographical reference to the index of a footnote in the big book of human history. Unfortunately for you, dear reader, that is what this post is about. After putting up my blind, about two thirds of my stack, I mistakenly looked at my cards. Looking was incorrect because it took Vegas’ all of about two heartbeats to bet the rest of my stack. Immediately I saw the idiocy of my action but I went into the tank anyways, trying to think my way through. When Vegas got called, I stopped thinking.

My cards are irrelevant. It doesn’t matter. I could be holding 7-2 offsuit and it would pay (in the sense that statistics and probability make sense) to play. I could play the board, I could play the hammer, it didn’t matter. I am getting over 5 to 1 for the rest of my chips. The clarity of pot odds chased out my trepidation. The apprehension from knowing what I held in my hand and the implicit probability (near 0) of a win, simply disappeared. Sometimes though, it makes sense to chip up irrespective of your cards. Ask the FlyingDane, he knows all things about sucking out and imputed, imperfect, improbable pot odds. I go all in, baby. What do I hold? The most fearsome cards in hold ‘em, the lauded hammer, 7-2 offsuit.

I am out in a flash. But I did the right thing. The problem with my game was that I got caught in the bind in the first place. That is today’s lesson kids: Don’t let the blinds get you or rather, don’t get bent because the structure of the tournament caused your downfall. That is the way cookie crumbles.

Big fun at the table anyways. The twenty man tourney split into two tables. My table consisted of the following ten people: theHost, WallyBall, me, Foley, and 5 people I never saw in my life. Host, Wally, and I are seated at one end; the end where the yakking never stops. To my tablemates from game one, if you want us to shut up, deal us hole cards that might stand up to a suited 9-6. Otherwise, your auditory bombardment continues unabated. I must confess that I was the worst perpetrator. Sorry, it’s hard to see 4-2, 8-3, A-2, K-5, 10-7,…and not get disgusted with poker and people. Now hobbling me with stoicism will not stand.

Someone has to speak truth to power.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Vegas bounced me from Game 1. That’s when the BigMan flayed my dignity by making me the banker for Game 2.

I’ll try to get to that story shortly. It has a very, very happy ending.

I Miss John Belushi

2008-06-17T13:54:00.003-04:00

Back in the day, thirty years ago, I could be found on most Friday evenings during the school year behind the bowling alley. There the gang would hang out and drink, imbibe in drugs of dubious legality, and if you were lucky, hook up with the fairer sex.

Ah school days…

Just got to thinking about the scruffy dude with the twelve string acoustic guitar. I forget what his name was, just remembered he hung around the city, singing crappy covers. After a free beer or two, he would start playing his own stuff. Complete with harmonica, he’d ripoff Dylan or Springsteen, hoarse voice, mumbled words, and all.

It was my introduction to the faux-sensitive douchebag. Unkempt hair, shoes without socks, three-day old beard, denim jacket and torn jeans, he was a fashion pioneer or poseur. Not quite sure because I was just a teenager and only recently coming into my own fashion-wise.

I remember the Dude, as he shall be named here, for two things: his aforementioned appearance and the chicks. God, did they love the Dude. As long as he kept playing. Each heartrending ballad from the open roads of the Capital District or Asbury Park made the gals think “Oh my God, he knows, he knows…” Didn’t matter a lick that without the guitar, the girls would sniff “more disgusting Cohoes riff-raff,” he was gold as long as he could play the notes.

On the occasion that he would stop playing and get another beer, I might chat him up at the keg. Having siblings in the mental health business served some purpose as I couldn’t exactly diagnose him but I could determine that he was a bit off.

“Another beer dude?” I inquire.
“Don’t mind if I do. Troubadoring is thirsty work.” He accepts. Naturally.
“Dude, when did you pick up the guitar?”
“Man, it seems like yesterday but it was many, oh so many, years ago. I was doing a stint at CDPC*.” The dude was honest to a fault. And yes, he spoke like that.
“What were you doing there?” I am not doing my job if I’m not following up.
“Oh my man, I had problems. Problems with my Mom, problems with my Dad, problems with the service, and finally problems in the county lockup.”
“And did CDPC help?”
“They gave me the guitar and a new set of problems, with the ladies.”

I see…

Down in the office courtyard, there is another tortured artist belting out his psychotic upchuck, fingering his twelve string. Ruminating on lost love, broken hearts, and failed relationships, he sings to fourteen people, six of whom may be developmentally disabled. He wears a baseball cap, has a ponytail, sports some beard, determines that his stage tee shirt have at least three holes.

I want to rip that guitar out of his hands and smash it to a million splinters.

I guess that makes me another angry white man.

*Capital District Psychiatric Center

I'm good for two posts a year. Here' s number three

2008-04-17T08:38:00.001-04:00

I carry a man bag.

I don’t think that makes me sexually suspect, only emasculate. I take some small solace by telling myself I need something to carry my Jethro Bodine size lunch. Some days I feel better but not many. It is with envy I look at those company men that arrive at work with nothing more than a brown bag and a copy of the Post tucked under their arm.

However, I am not the worst case of office male feminization.

I just got off the elevator. The luggage per person ratio ticked at 3 to 1. Average size of attaché/man bag/suitcase with rollers: 1 cubic yard.

My question is: What the hell is everyone bringing to work? I have a few ideas:

1.) Homework: Man, if this is the case, the average office monkey is working way, way, way too hard, and by extension, not very smart.
2.) Lunch: Laugh if you want, but the denizens of my office are rated by the National Traffic Safety Board as “moving fire hazards.”
3.) Reading Material: It makes sense only if you attend our insufferably long and meaningless meetings.
4.) Status: Some days I think these jokers want to obstruct normal office foot traffic with their “carry ons” because they want the typical passer by to notice how important and essential they are to the operation. As evidence, I cite this preternaturally pretensious preening from a poseur: “You know, Samsonite is the new Rolex.” These dudes have nothing in their bags; they suffer from low self esteem and a need to be loved. I usually give them a hug before they get off the elevator.

Now that I have given some vent to my spleen, I was wondering if anyone wants to purchase my 10 year old Kenneth Cole. It is a little ragged but it needs a good home.

I’ll even clean the cookie crumbs out for you.

Caption Contest

2008-03-03T14:52:00.002-05:00

My Favorites:

1.) Yes, I will accept the VP slot

2.) Shout Out to all my Peeps! What do you mean I fugged up my gang digits?!!!

3.) Bill and I got it on this many times.

4.) Constipated for years, Presidential Hopeful Hillary Rodham Clinton asks to be excused from Texas campaign stop.

Laugh it up people. She might just be the best of the current crop.

Please feel free to shoot me your caption in the comments.

Getting Our Groove On!

2008-02-29T14:27:00.003-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night…

Wait a fuggin minute! Let’s try that again.

It was a dark and freezing morning…

Still sucks. How’s this grab you?

Dear Mr. Friendly,

The world needs you back.

Signed,
Your two readers

Well, shat on a hockey stick, who am I to deny my two readers?

In the immortal words of Debbie Fields, “Let’s get fuggin’ started!”

I’m walking into work the other day. It’s late February and the sun is getting a little higher in the sky, so of course the Eyewitness Weather (that’s me witnessing the weather folks) says it’s three below zero. And that’s in the shade, without the wind. I pass by Charlie, my parking garage hobo. Mister Charlie is waiting for me. He wants to shout out some good news:
“Hey man, gimme a dollar.”

“What the fug for Charlie? You already owe me fiddy cent!”

Charlie is unfazed. “Whafo’ you be speakin’ to me like that fo’? Imma jus’ tryin to get by.”

I am not a man to be upbraided by bums: “Charlie, for cripessakes, all you do is hang out at the garage and put the arm on solid, hard working, get up at the crack of dawn jerks like me. Why don’t you park your smelly arse out in front of City Hall for a change?”

“City Hall. Dayuuuuum man. I can’t hang out there. Those folks are crazy.”

I mutter “they’re not alone,” then ask “Whatcha talkin’ about Willis, I mean, Charlie?”

“They fine me outside City Hall, Mayor Jerry go an’ ship my sorry arse down to the city mission. I can’t get my groove on at the mission. They don’t serve no raspberry schnapps down at the mission.”

“And this means what to me, Charlie?”

“Youse got to help a poor fool out. Contribute to the ‘Help a Bum Get Drunk’ Fund.”

New approach. I .like Charlie’s ingenuity. “Here’s your buck Charlie. Hope your day stays as well as it started. Now get the fug outta my face.”

Who am I to deny a man his groove? I can't do that to Charlie, to my faithless and bored and moved on audience, nor, dear reader, to myself. So yeah, let's get grooving Garage Panhandler Charlie style. You shake your booty and I'll shake my moneymaker too. Maybe we can have a little fun laughing at all the other arseholes God put on Earth. I hope you'll join me. Especially you ladies. Oh yeah, you lovely ladies.

By the way, Raspberry Schnapps does qualify you for a forearm shiver.

What? You were expecting a home run right out of the box?

And then...

2008-02-28T15:21:00.001-05:00

depression set in.

This spells comedy for you.

Stay fuggin't tuned.

Fugger.

Everybody Sing!

2007-07-05T14:29:00.001-04:00

Hat tips to Melissa Manchester and The Smoking Gun

And a one, and a two, and a one, two, three...

Baby cried the day
the circus came to town
'cause she didn't want
parades just passin' by her

So she painted on a smile and took up with some clown

While she danced without a net upon the wire

I know a lot about 'er 'cause, you see
Baby is an awful lot like me

Don't cry out loud
Just keep it inside,
learn how to hide your feelings

Fly high and proud
And if you should fall,
remember you almost had it all

Baby saw that when they pulled that big top down
They left behind her dreams among the litter

The different kind of love she thought she'd found
There was nothin' left but sawdust and some glitter
But baby can't be broken 'cause you see
She had the finest teacher-that was me-I told 'er

Don't cry out loud

Just keep it inside

and learn how to

hide your feelings

Fly high and proud

And if you should fall,
remember you almost had it all

Big Finale !!!!!

Don't cry out loud
Just keep it inside and learn how to hide your feelings

Fly high and proud and if you should fall,
remember you almost had it all

And yes, these last two mugshots are of the same lady on two separate occasions four days apart.

I think I need a tissue.

The Two Cohoes

2007-02-16T23:00:00.000-05:00

There are apparently two Cohoes. The folksy down-home type that I guess Mayor John McDonald would like me to remember fondly.

Then there is this.

GUESS which Cohoes I remember?

T'aint hard. I don't live there anymore.

By the by, it's nice to be back.

Roundup

2006-12-26T13:32:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I am a bad Catholic. Maybe one of my Krazy Katholic readers can clue me in on the origin of the Solemn Mass' proclamation on Christmas:

In the five thousand one hundred and ninety-ninth year of the creation of the world from the time when God in the beginning created the heavens and the earth;

the two thousand nine hundred and fifty-seventh year after the flood;

the two thousand and fifteenth year from the birth of Abraham;

the one thousand five hundred and tenth year from Moses and the going forth of the people of Israel from Egypt;

the one thousand and thirty-second year from David's being anointed king;

in the sixty-fifth week according to the prophecy of Daniel;

in the one hundred and ninety-fourth Olympiad;

the seven hundred and fifty-second year from the foundation of the city of Rome;

the forty second year of the reign of Octavian Augustus;

the whole world being at peace,

in the sixth age of the world,

Jesus Christ the eternal God and Son of the eternal Father, desiring to sanctify the world by his most merciful coming, being conceived by the Holy Spirit, and nine months having passed since his conception, was born in Bethlehem of Judea of the Virgin Mary, being made flesh.

Even if I don't get an answer, it was still pretty cool. Proclamations are cool! Well, as long as you got something to say. I will not sully the post with "not so cool" proclamations.

Funny thing is I don't remember ever hearing this before. Then in one night, I get it recited, chanted, written. I am feeling good about my proud Church today.

**************************************
My church was packed. It is not a megachurch by any means. It is a small, 200+ year old church in Albany. Check out the website. They crammed in over 1200 people there for the 4:00 vigil on Sunday. Who cares if the congregation was supplemented by the C & E's? At least they participated in a pretty good service.

**************************************
Like Ralphie, my kids got nearly everything they wanted for Christmas. All gripes may be forwarded to the complaint department. That would be the full set of grandparents. With full wallets, of course. All more than happy to, uhm, take care of bidness.

**************************************
I can only con Mrs. F. into having a country ham once a year or so. Christmas was my day. Ooh-la-la Mama Friendly made one the night before. Delectable. Yours truly fired his up on the big day. Can you have too much of a good thing? I don't know. Ask Porky Pig if there is a downside to too much ham.

**************************************
I gotta slip it in because it is wrong. The link refers to a clinical description more popularly known "Partial Birth Abortion." If Catholic employers need to fund contraception and what not, Planned Parenthood and its supporters should be required to view the procedure, in all its glory, every day.

**************************************
Going to be making some changes here. Check out the Albany links. We have some additions.

Upstream is THE Mohawk Valley blog. Dan Weaver shames most others with his writing. Mr. F. says check it out.

Off the Top of My Head is Chris Rooney's blog. The one remaining Niskayuna reader is commanded to read it.

The Judge Report is Amsterdamer(Amsterdamian) Robert Going's blog. I read December and I liked. Seems like a good man. Let him know if you agree.

**************************************
Seriously need to get around to adding some religiousy type stuff. I'll get there...

My problem with some of the Katlick type blogs is the "Top That" type of faith. I really don't care if you know all the holy days of obligation or if you know the difference between the Nicene and Apostolic Creed or how much you just looooooove the "Old Mass." Those issues pale in import to faith, hope, and love. And the God, the Word, and the Spirit that make them all possible.

Don't forget Mary too. Without her and her exercise of free will, we would all be up a creek without a paddle.

***************************************
Hope you had a Merry Christmas.

I'm dreaming of a Brown Christmas!

2006-12-20T14:05:00.000-05:00

And such little squekers as these you will be led by.

Over twenty years ago and for more years than I would like to say I worked for United Parcel Service. During that time, I worked my way up from package handling turd to supervisor of package handling turds.

Imagine my self esteem.

Used to be during that time, I would dread Christmas. From a time of celebrating Christ's birth and spending time with loved ones, it became PEAK SEASON. When I started, peak began the Monday following Thanksgiving and lasted until the day before Christmas Eve. By the time I left, peak extended from Columbus Day to December 24th. I could best characterize it as a dream, a nightmare, of an unrelenting backlog of catalogs, LL Bean bags, Grandma's cookies, electronic crap, and heavy shat that in reality only lasted 15 hours a day. I remember distinctly waking from a morning fever dream of a mountain of packages that got bigger and bigger...

Among the numerous atrocities performed by myself and my managerial overlords, one event remains prominent. Settle back, and I will tell you a little story.

Back in the day, in addition to peak season's steady roll of parcels, there was always our manager's issue of the day. Usually, production held prominence, but occassionally, we lowly supervisors were tormented with demands for timeliness (get the trucks out on time), missorts (no packages in a truck that don't belong there), or leaving our area neat and tidy for the next group of jagasses to operate. In a reasonable world, economic analysis would show my manager/dictator that you might be able to optimize one or two of these objectives, but not all.

Never all.

Did. not. fugging. matter.
Not tonight.
With Christmas fast approaching, my manager's managers had expressed with great emphasis and many expletives to be sure, that our shift was not to leave one fugging package for the next shift.

Not one.

In an operation that moves 120,000 - 150,000 parcels in three to four hours, trust me, in a world of competing demands, this one is an impossibility. Our operation was designed to accomodate 20 - 25,000 happy packages per hour optimally. We were moving at least twice that at this time of year. The law of ten pounds of shat in a five pound bag clearly states:
Some shat will overflow.

But overlords being overlords, laws will be overlord-looked.

By the end of the shift, the guy leading us through our Christmas Coma gathered roughly 50 packages together. Then he gathered his we little supervisory crew.
"What the fug are these packages doing here?!"
My fellow supes and I looked at each other, looked down. We knew what they were doing there. They were missed. The trucks had to roll. These orphans never made their ride.

How wrong we were.

"You fuggin' arseholes are going to split these fuggin' packages up, put them in fuggin' vehicles, gas fuggin' up and fuggin' deliver them!"
Right.
"You will fuggin' do this or you will not get your fuggin' bonus check!"

Check and mate.

Our bonus checks amounted to at least half a month's pay. For those of us pulling doubles throughout the year, it was considerably more. We depended on those checks. Many of us worked all year for those checks. Bonus my hairy arse, these scumbags took that money out of my hide. That is my check.

I was wrong.

My manager could hold that check in his JC Penney shirt forever. I could try to go to his boss, but the response would probably be something along the lines of:
Boss's boss: Did you guys leave packages for the next shift?
Me: Yes.
Boss's boss: TS fugger.

So I load up a white panel truck (we rented some vehicles during the peak season), make sure none of the teamsters see me drive off (did I mention that this was a grievable action), and make my way to Hartford, Ct. Hope I have enough gas.

Decembers in the great Northeast can be rough. Typically, the early weeks of December bring the first weather assaults on the thermometer. That night the temperature approached zero, with a wind.

There was no one on the Thruway, Mass Pike, or I-81. I get to the Hartford Hub in a little over 2 hours. I pull into an inbound feeder door, make my way to the unload, and find a Hartford supervisor.

"Hey, another arsehole for the Brown Frown," I say.
"What, fugface!"
Typical response.
"I'm from Albany. My cogsuggin manager is holding my bonus check until I unload these here packages." I say.
"What an arsehole!", comes the response.

Good to know that there is some commonality with brothers in arms.

My counterpart will take care of the packages. I just leave them on the platform. I am about 10 miles from Hartford when I first think that I should have gassed up at the Hub.
"Shat!"

Things are getting dicey by the time I pass the New York/Massachusetts border...
low on gas,
still about 35 miles from the Albany Hub,
midnight on a winter weeknight,
weather is abominable,
Art Bell is on the radio.

I do what I swore, when I left, I would not do. I buy $5 of Thruway gas. Back in '89, that was about 4 gallons. Just enough to get me home. There is no way I am giving these chuckleheads free gas.

You get to thinking on the empty road. Well, I suppose you get to thinking about how nice getting home would be. I got to thinking about how much longer I would have to work for some miserable, punitive somnabit that would force my gang and me into delivering 5-10 packages on a 100 (or more, one way) mile trip. I reentered academia about half a year earlier and it would be another year before I got my degree. I was screwed for now. But when the day came, man it would be so sweet to kick the UPS dust off my workboots. And then burn the workboots.

I pull into the Albany Hub on fumes. That is when the teamsters saw me. They were waiting. They saw some of my fellow supes come back and knew what the deal was. They were just making sure they got all the names for the grievance. I told them I was just following my beloved manager's crazy demand and to spell Friendly with an "ie." I proceed to track down my manager.

Bumping into an old boss of mine, the one who ran the second shift, I ask him if he knows where Stoolmaker is (that isn't the manager's name, but it's close). Old boss lowers the boom. Stoolmaker left. Then he asks me what's up. I knew he knew but I felt I needed to unload and, what the hell, he was asking for it.

I launch into an expletive rich tirade that lasts about 15 minutes. During that time, I question the parentage of my coggsuggin' superiors, my own stupidity, and my generally miserable future.

You know what my old boss said. It had all the economy and wisdom of Ben Franklin:
"What the fug do you care, you'll not always be here."

Exactly.

During my time at the Brown Frown, I saw more than one person carried out, never to be seen by friend or family again. I have heard of the poor souls that would rather take the gas pipe than another day in his veil of tears. I saw people younger than forty have their futures obliterated by an innappropriate act or utterance which led to their firing. People I knew, who had futures beyond work, make it to retirement and have it end after six months. I saw young guys throw away a perfectly good education in order to get some teamster pothead to move just, a, little, bit, quicker. In short, God showed me in manifest ways that my future lied elsewhere.

Old boss was right. Let that miserable bahstahd have his day and pound of flesh. I hoped he was satisfied and would back off the rest of peak season. To myself, I wished him luck in his career. He would need it. In a year or two, he was one of the arseholes whose UPS career met a dismal end in the aftermath of some cocaine imbroglio.

Me. Well, after my bachelor's I pressed for graduate work so I stayed at the widowmaker a few more years. But I remember after I was done with my master's like it was yesterday. I gave my notice and after over ten years of service without a sick day, I called in on my last day. Fug them and their fuggin' cake. After a few weeks, I had not received my final pay (with four weeks of vacation time). So I called the district office and ratted out every manager, with one exception (old boss). My check came a week later and I felt square for a long time.

Nowadays, it's easy. I am way ahead but still laugh my arse off every Christmas season as I drive by the Albany Hub.

Merry Christmas to the poor schlubs of UPS.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

2006-12-18T09:16:00.000-05:00

I spent many a Christmas as a supervisor for a largely known package delivery firm. I hope that I can trade in my time there for time served come purgatory time. We'll see.
In commemoration, I give you "Do You Hear What I Hear?" UPS style.

Merry Christmas. This is all in fun. It's ok to not get it.

Said night side supe to his sorter staff
"Do you see what I see?
Way out in the lot, sorter staff
Do you see what I see?
A trailer, a trailer, we're missing one alnight
It will keep us here through the night
It will keep us here through the night."

Said the jaded sorter to the steroid boy,
"Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through the PA, steroid boy,
Do you hear what I hear?
A page, a page high above the noise
With some news that will bring us no joy,
With some news that will bring us no joy."

Said the steroid boy to his lowly supe,
"Do you know what I know?
In your carhart jacket torn, lowly supe,
Do you know what I know?
A feeder, a feeder lingers in the cold --
We must unload it 'til we are old.
We must unload it 'til we are old."

Said the unload supe to his people everywhere,
"Listen to what I say!
Pray for an end to shifts everyday,
Listen to what I say!
A feeder, a feeder missing in the night
It will bring us misery and blight,
It will bring us misery and blight."

Are we fuggin retarded or what?

2006-12-15T10:08:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know its been a long time, but with Christmas and all, things are slowing down at the salt mine and that means, more bloggin' time.

Yeah, baby! Let's get to it.

The only non-culturally befuddled habib around here steps up today:
NCBHabib: Mr. Friendly, when you calculate someone's age, does the number increment on or after the birthdate?

Restraining oneself from slapping someone silly for asking such a stupid question can really build character.

Me: The day the birthday falls ON! You friggin mo-mo! I imagine in your country, you actually turn five three weeks and a day following your fifth birthday.

He continues.
NCBHabib: Then why would someone (identity redacted because it would cost me my job) who was born on this day, five years ago, have an age of four?

...crickets...

Me: How the fug do I know? Let's look at the code.

So we look at the code, but the problem is there are two versions that supposedly do the same thing, get a list of people and show some characteristics (race, language, AGE!, etc.). MY version calculates the age of the person and is correct.

Always. well, so far.

Then there is the code Habibalala used. The nitwit who wrote it just took the age from the database. i.e. WHAT?!

I laugh.

You're not laughing. Ok, I will explain. There are two different kinds of data. Static data, like for instance a person's birth date. You know, data that will not change relatively often. Then there is Derived data, that is data that should be figured out each and every time you access it because that is a heck of alot easier than updating it every fuggin' year, month, week, day, second.

The only problem with this little model is when some yo-yo confuses the two types.

Guess what my little habibalalas did?

Yes, you are correct, sir!

I fuggin laugh at NCBHabib. He must take the issue up with his fellow subcontinenter who wrote the crap code.

I wish him luck and kick his arse out of my cubicle.

Turkey Q and A (courtesy of Butterball)

2006-11-22T07:54:00.000-05:00

How much turkey should I buy?
Well, first calculate the number of people in attendance at tomorrow's feast. Multiply by 1.5 (white meat) and .75 (dark meat) and add the totals. Multiply that result by -.025 (the pain in the arse vegetarian factor) and add the same amount of strained beets. Divide this result by 5 and add 5 for every whole number (the bone factor) and you should have your turkey size.

Or you could just measure the lowest shelf of your refrigerator and get the biggest Butterball turkey that will fit there.

Should I buy fresh or frozen?
All Butterball turkeys are freshly delivered to your supermarket shelves. We can't speak for other "poultry" distributors but the beat on the street is they get their turkeys via a nationwide search of road kill on the weeks preceding Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. They then "flash freeze" the "birds" to conceal the fact. Our word to you is better safe with Butterball than sorry with some other "bad - bird" producer.

What's the best way to thaw a turkey?
The folks at Butterball have spent considerable time and effort on this very question. Our scientists at the Butterball institute declared last year that the very best way to thaw a turkey is through warm water infusion. If you lack a warm water infuser at home, a hot bubble bath will do the trick.

What's the best way to roast a turkey?
Uuuuummm, with a roaster? Sorry, we don't understand your question.

What do I need to do to the turkey just before roasting?
Butterball enthusiasts claim that a four hour interrogation with a meat tenderizer may soften the old bird up. Additionally, you may want to remove the organs from that neck flap and turning on the oven helps.
Oh, and taking the bird out of the plastic bag helps.

Where does the meat thermometer go?
Must we answer this question.
How do I know the turkey is done?
IT IS A FUGGING BUTTERBALL LAME-O! The patented "thingy" pops up.
We bet you feel really stupid now.

How do I store leftover turkey?
What are you talking about? There SHOULD BE NO LEFTOVER BIRD!!! We just told you how to calculate the right amount of bird to buy! I mean, COME ON!!!

Happy Thanksgiving!

True Stories of Foot In Mouth Disease

2006-11-16T10:45:00.000-05:00

As contractors at a large state agency (substitute large bureacratic firm if you like), it behooves us to keep our mouths shut in times of uncertainty (or uncertain people). Appropos for the holidays, I have an illustrative story.

An acquaintance at the salt mine, let's call him Mr. Say the Wrong Thing, was waiting for the elevator on Thanksgiving Eve not many years ago. It was the end of the work day before the big holiday brouhaha and a statie joined him to wait. Mr. SWT starts up a conversation quite innocently:

Mr. SWT: Hey (statie's name redacted to protect my job), Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Statie: Hmmmmph.
Mr. SWT: Sorry Statie, did I offend? (let's pause here for a moment to reflect on this second breach of the contractor code: If you say something stupid or offensive, don't follow up by asking the offended for an explanation. It makes the offended feel more so and it makes you, as the offender, look stupid)
Statie: It's my second least favorite holiday, following of course, Columbus Day.
Mr. SWT: umm, sorry.

Did I mention that the statie is a full blooded Cherokee? Consider it mentioned.

Which brings us back to the real reason behind the story. As the holidays are upon us, let us reflect on their real meaning: Making others uncomfortable, no wait, sharing the joy of the season. With that in mind, I found this site and implore you to gather as many bands as possible to alert others that it is OK to celebrate Jesus' birthday joyfully with others.

So, don't be afraid, get a wristband for you, your family, and your Catholic (or separated brethren) friends. This way you let others know that you will not be cowed by political correctness and more importantly, you wish others the joy of the season irrespective of their religious convictions.

Oh, and if I don't see you, Merry Christmas!

So you thought Irish wakes were bad?

2006-11-02T08:54:00.000-05:00

Ever try an Irish christening?

See photo of Uncle Paddy and Uncle Sean below.

We, of the family, pray every day that the uncles will live long enough to see lil' Squirt's 5th birthday.

Nothing Stops Child's Pursuit of Candy

2006-11-01T13:59:00.000-05:00

Happy Day After for all those parents with little kids out there! Happy All Saints Day to the Katlicks!

The rest of you, I don't know, Happy "Only 54 Days 'til Christmas!" Get. off. my. back!

Generally, I am out the door for work at 6:30 in the morn. Yesterday, lil Squirt got up with me,

Then Mommy got up.

Then Junior got up. She hardly ever does that. Perhaps it was the barky cough. Perhaps it was the tears. Either way, I am on the phone with the doctor, ahem Physician's Assistant, on call. We join the call in progress.

MRF: I think she just yakked up a lung! Can somebody see her in half an hour?
PA (Physician's Assistant): The office will be opened at 8:45.
MRF: (To Junior) Is that blood? Holy Cripes, I have to bring you to Urgent Care!
PA: Sir, as her parent, you must do what you think is best. However, we strongly urge you to bring Junior in to the office at 8:45
MRF: What do I have to say to get one of the three real doctors to look at my kid?
PA: Someone will be available at 8:45..

And on it goes...

Heaven forbid someone wake the doctors. Hell, I am a lowly IT drone, but I can haul my carcass to work for 7AM. I don't even have an avocation. I mean, I HATE MY JOB! But come hell or high water, there I am. At. my. desk. Everyday.

What Mr. and Mrs., sorry, Dr. and Mrs. "I want to save the world"...
Too tired?
Worked one day this week already?
Gotta get the kids to school?
Need to have breakfast with the trophy wife/loser husband?
Insurance payments too low?

What? What? What is the reason you friggin docs don't care?

So, anyways. Coughing subsides and Mrs. brings Junior into the docs later in the day. But, in her diligence she did managed to score some serious cough medicine for Junior. I think her conversation went like this:

Mrs Friendly : WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET MY KID SOME COUGH MEDICINE WITH CODEINE????!!!!
Dr Wuss: Well, um, uh, we don't like to prescribe those meds regularly...
MRF: Then next time she has a cold, she can stay with you and your family.
DW: Well, I have never prescribed that medicine for my kids.
MRF (sensing BS): Well, then you will have no trouble caring for Junior at your house! No, seriously, must I bring her to the emergency room to get what I want?!

The following is a quote:
DW: Well, we don't want her to have disjointed care. I will prescribe the meds.
Mrs. found the magic words. Threaten the docs in the pocket book. That's the ticket!

Junior comes home after school and doctor's office. However, her enthusiasm for her favorite holiday (except Christmas) IS NOT DAMPENED! She goes trick or treating not once, not twice, but, as John Kerry would say, thrice.

The witnesses:
1.) Babysitter (1 hour trip)
2.) The mother (1 hour trip)
3.) The father (2 hour trip)

Long story short. 4 hours of fun in the neighborhood. An hour of examining the booty and eating a few pieces. One teaspoon of cough medicine and it is lights out for Junior. God bless adrenaline, sugar crashes, and codeine.

Oh well, it's all good fun.

For the rest of us who be Katlick, make sure you get your arse into a church today. Holy Day and all! Say a couple of prayers to all saints with respect to your salvation.

Can't hurt none. They only want to help.

You see you can't pray for a saint. There isn't anything he or she can do with it. They already got their reward. So you pray to the saints to intercede on your behalf. Thus endeth the theology lesson for today. Trust me, having others in your court can not hurt.

*****************************************************
I have been meaning to post some pictures lately. But I can't right now because fuggin Blogger is giving me the finger. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow, don't forget it is All Souls Day. Get in church for a minute or two and pray for someone you really wish gets his heavenly reward.

In the meantime and in the spirit of the holiday, May your Peppermint Patties be few and your Snickers be plentiful!

Big Bad Bob

2006-10-27T10:35:00.000-04:00

All hail my musical rendering of the events before, during, and after the only job (contractual or otherwise) where it was determined that my services were no longer needed. Please sing to Johnny Cash's "Big Bad John" (with my preemptive apologies):

Big Bob
Big Bob

Every mornning at the office, you could see him arrive.
He stood 6 foot 6, weighed 145.
Kind of thin at the shoulders, swayed at the back.
And everybody knew you didn't give no flack to Big Bob.

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob

Nobody seemed to know why Bob was there
He just drifted into work, sat and stared
He didn't say much, kind of quiet and shy
And if you spoke at all, you'd just said hi to Big Bob.
Somebody said he was from Department of Tax,
Where he got into a fight over a unofficial fax.
And a negative review from a political hand,
sent an assistant director to the promise land.

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big bad Bob
Big Bob

Then came the day at that office of mine,
when a statie cracked and memos went flying.
Hindus were praying, and hearts beat fast
and contractors thought they had breathed their last
cept' Bob.
Through the gossip and rumor of this man made hell,
walked a midget of a man that the staties knew well.
Grabbed the first contractor and gave out a groan,
and threw him to the street to stand there alone, Big Bob

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob

And with all of his might, he explained the firing.
But the ousted contractor said, 'there's other people hiring!'.
And 20 men of Mumbai fled from a 'would be' grave
now theres only one left down there to save, Big Bob.
With jacks and timbers, they started back down,
then shut Big Bob up way down in the ground.
And as smoke and coffee belched from that place,
everybody knew they just ran out of space, for Big Bob.

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob

Now they never re-opened that shabby place,
they just put a golden plaque on its face.
These few words are written we know not from,
'At the bottom of all this rubble, lies one Hell of a bum, Big Bob'

Big Bob
Big Bob
Big Bad Bob
Big Bob.

Yeah, it may not be hilarious, but it was funny to me.

Zip your lip!

2006-10-26T13:02:00.000-04:00

Sorry I have lax in posting. You have every right to be annoyed with me as I leave you hanging on the fate of lil Squirt.

Short story is, as expressed yesterday, he's fine.

Actually, he's fantastic.

Except at 3 AM, when he's hungry and suffering the indignity and discomfort of the ol' wet diaper. Then, he's a real pain in the arse.

Long story. Lil Squirt, as we discovered at the 3 (4?) D ultrasound prior to his arrival, had a unilateral, incomplete cleft lip. Palette was, in fact, intact. So, instead of having to suffer through multiple surgeries for palette, lip, ear, etc. correction, he merely needed some cosmetic surgery to fix the lip. Trust me, there are worse things than this. As evidence I offer the following: google "facial cleft." Let me know what you think of those stories.

Alright, back to Lil Squirt. Plastic surgeons, probably at the urging of worried parents, wait only 3 to 6 months before correcting the cleft lip. The reason they cite is that the earlier the operative scar is made, the better the chances are that the scar will fade in appearance. They wait until they believe the infant is of a age/weight where the general anesthesia is not a huge risk.

That was Mrs. Friendly's and my primary concern. Once put down, we hoped that lil Squirt would wake up. Thank God, he did. Now his only worry is his cool scar which may need further surgery dependent on how the lip looks in a few years.

How does he look? Well, the early results are in and I think the results are successful. Despite being a handsome little devil with the split lip, the reconstruction makes him cuter. Hear that ladies!

Speaking of ladies, this kid really attracts attention from the fairer sex. I remember that Junior did and still does get a great deal of attention due to her cuteness, but I notice that nurses, old and young ladies, female doctors are all enamored of the little man. I must remember to tell him that the ladies like cute and he should remain so for efficacious future relations.

Now, after hearing my tale of woe, you might want to do something. Well, I am only too happy to oblige. Although we did not prevail upon both of these institutions for services, they do good work. First off, we have Boston Children's Hospital. Mrs. and I visited twice: once for prenatal testing; the second time for a consult after lil' Squirt was born. In both instances, I was struck by the approach the staff took there. Generally, I am underwhelmed by the level of effort and attitude of those in the medical industry. At Boston Children's, our experience with the staff was phenomenal. They really seem to be dedicated to the service of children. Given that the average level of affliction there is considerably higher than lil' Squirt's, e.g. facial clefts, undeveloped appendages, heart deformations, etc., their level of effort is a blessing indeed. Secondly, we have the Cleft Palatte Foundation, let's call it a clearinghouse for those who suffer, at the very least, as badly as lil' Squirt. For the most part, these kids are much worse shape.

Please, if you can spare a few bucks, send it either way.

Again, thanks for your interest in lil' Squirt and for your thoughts and prayers.