Or… “Don’t Shit Where You Eat.”
“Using Parking Meters as Walking Sticks”
Now, I can Honestly Say That I Have Been to Jail In-This-Country–America, as Opposed to All The ‘Other’ Countries I have been to Jail in…
Tom Waits – “Eggs and Sausage
In A Cadillac With Susan Michelson”
“Why do men chase women?”
“I think It’s Because They Fear Death”
“Old saying my mother told me. Wanna hear it?”
“Yeah. Sure. Of Course.”
“Don’t Shit Where You Eat.”
Yes. I’ve done some incredibly stupid shit in my time.
Below is an actual-for-real email I sent to a soon-to-be former boss (an attractive lady-boss, of course.) and is sadly very close to the top of the Misfit Hit Parade of lame-ass-actions I have perpetrated on innocents.
I have swerved into the solution for Drunken Emails.
Who could’ve known it would be this simple?
Street Cred for Vid: Big Play Films
From: Moron <firstname.lastname@example.org> cc bcc:
Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).
It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:
“No! Don’t Go There Lance!”
Brevity? Yes. (‘That soul of wit.’)
“Words have meaning Son,” my father often told me.
And short words, I have discovered, oft hold the most meaningful meaning.
It has been ‘awkward’ (to say the very least) to face you of late.
After my ‘email shot-gunning’ you, off-the-chain escapade of recent shameful regret, but… I did it and today found the courage to read all of what I did send and happily discovered, most were not of the obnoxious caliber of my historical wont.
Thank God and Baby Hey Zeus!
Alas, I wish I had an excuse.
Yet, in searching, there is one to be discovered, but so probably painfully evident that it requires no verbalization:
Two times per year, I get to ‘explore’ my darker side.
Two times per year, I choose a ‘lucky’ recipient to ‘share’ in my darkness.
Two times per year someone gets to be ‘it’.
You’re the New ‘IT’ Girl!
You’re in Good Company.
Clara Bow: The Original It Girl, 1927
The thing about writers (and those so-called writers who call themselves ‘writers’) is that they are so full of themselves, so full of shit & vain by nature (it is requisite-with the breed), and every writer and so-called writer I have ever met, are… assholes. All.
Vain, pompous, drinks-too-much, full of sound and fury, and desperation just to be read.
“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Black Velvet, Black Velvet, If You Please…
(Feminine / Female Diversion)
I am not (not really) stupid.
I know you cannot ‘comment’ nor even acknowledge, via email, all the posts I posted ‘at you.’
I dare say you would be wise to ignore me and my ramblings, given our professional relationship.
Yet, if you did read even one of the posts on my blog, (actually I think you read the first one I begged you to read—not the ‘best’ one, but one which apparently was on my mind–at the time)
It is a very simple thing to comment, ‘in disguise’ as
Or simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)
Do that once and I will be sated.
Do it twice and you get a
For Free Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,
An Autographed 8X10 Hollywood-Type-Glossy Photograph of Jesus Christ.
Sermon-on-the-mount, highly recommended, and our best-seller
But you cannot have both; there is a limited supply.
Do it thrice: You should seek counsel.
“Writers are assholes.”
“Lance is a ‘writer’”
“Ergo, Lance is an asshole.”
There is a point to this post, but most assuredly, I have forgotten my initial inclination in that regard.
Jeopardy musical theme plays
Now I’ve got it!
This is my convoluted apology to you.
I am, and shall always remain, an Honorable Military Man.
I am cognizant of the duty (and the mission)
And, admitting I was wrong is something which seems to be easier (and more difficult—same time) to do lately.
My first wife once accused me of aspiring to be “King of the Idiots.”
(She was an idiot savant…well, you’d have to know her to get my meaning, yet, I think–know, that I have posted about her…ON-MY-BLOG)
Back to my point:
I am beginning to grow bored with my job.
You are the best supervisor/boss I have had in recent memory. All, and I do mean ALL respect you.
This should be enough for me (and for the foreseeable future it shall be)
I don’t like to shit where I eat, BUT (and this is a curse), I have a opinions and I need to get that tattoo—post haste—and with all due prejudice.
I like you Suki.
I respect you.
I am trying to help you professionally (in my way).
I am not trying to ‘do’ anything other than ‘talk’ to you and ‘work’ for you.
To quote Nixon:
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear…”
I am a whore, but only when it comes to my writing.
Nothing else these days (aside from my computer addiction) means anything to me.
I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, appear
(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)
(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)
See you on Friday.
And remember not to work too hard.
Life’s best moments can be fleeting.
“Win or lose, win or lose
To the losers go the heart-sick blues
To the victor goes the spoilings
Honey, did you win or lose?”
(Heads up: I lost)
To an Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.
Lovely, Beautiful Joni
Lovely, Beautiful Joni