Posts Tagged ‘work’

I used to get upset whenever someone achieved their dreams. I still do sometimes. I’m nowhere near achieving mine. Then a thought popped into my head. These successful strangers can’t all have rich parents who buy their way into fancy jobs. That’s too insidious and possible. I would like to instead believe that hard work eventually pays off.

(Nobody worked harder than Pete Rose and things turned out great for him)

There’s a saying goes “Give 110%” which if you know math is impossible. If anything giving 110% would mean you’re overexerting yourself. You’re doing more than anyone can possibly handle. You’ll end up going around 70% and maybe pulling a back muscle. Stick with 100%. It’s safer and you won’t get a hernia.

I like to have a reputation as a hard worker. I hustle when I need to. I put my heart and soul into most everything I do. Sometimes it pays off. Others it fizzles out. The thing about hard work is there was never a guarantee made that it would actually pay off. Imagine you were a pilgrim who helped to build the first colonies of the United States. You built a home from scratch. You helped skin a few animals for clothes. Then you caught a cold and died. You practically broke your back trying to begin a new life only to die. All of that so future people like me could live in a world without being made fun of for wearing belt buckles and thinking all women were witches. Thank you pilgrims. Your sacrifice means a lot to me.

(Thanks Laura Ingalls. You and your blind sister did a lot of helpful things)

In today’s world it’s easy to not work hard. We have robots that do most of our jobs. Some of us have chickens do it for us. We’re lazy. Why? Because we’re so far more advanced than we should be thanks to a few geniuses in a science lab. We’re living longer which means that we have many more tomorrows to do our laundry or shave our butts. Pilgrims didn’t have that luxury. They were married by 9 and grandparents by 13. John Smith, the guy that had sex with Pocahontas, he was 11! That’s actually probably not true. But you have to admit he acted 11 by falling in love with someone he could not verbally communicate with. John Smith was shallow. He liked Pocahontas for her looks. What could they talk about? Trees? Beavers? I’m glad I actually get to know women. I’m better than John Smith. Make a movie about me Disney.

(Captain John Smith, he doesn’t nearly look as much like Ike Hanson here as much as he did in the Disney Film)

It doesn’t matter where I go, I’m always seeing people on the job slacking off. They’re distracted by poop jokes in e-mails or drawing butterflies when they should be going over the Parson’s Account or picking their nose while taking an order. I could work much harder, but like you I love poop jokes, drawing butterflies, and picking my nose.

Here is a vow I will make to help the world. From now on I will never give 100%. I’ll give somewhere in the 40-50% range. Higher if I really need to. You might be thinking that this would accomplish nothing. Actually, this would force others to pick up the slack. One person giving 40% means that everyone else has to take some control and work a tad harder. The more lazy I become, the more other people have to do. The more hard work I do, the more lazy everybody else gets to be. Did Spock not say “The needs of many outweigh the needs of one?” I never saw the movie, I’m actually asking.

That’s my idea to help others achieve greatness. Be an awfully skilled human being. Don’t help out others. Never give good advice. People will no longer be able to lean on me for support. They will be forced to do it all alone. They will build up an immunity to success. They will be stronger and faster. The world will move smoother and productivity will be at an all-time high. Peace will shine over the lands. And the lion will lie down with the lamb.

(Lions have yet to lie down with the lambs, but apparently ducks have began to walk with the dogs. It’s a start)

Now begins my journey of laziness. Enjoy the view ladies. I’m going pants-less.

“My sacrifice.” – A Creed song about a baseball strategy with a man on first and less than 2 outs with a pitcher up at bat

(My daily commute, in map form!)

On average, it takes me an hour to get to work. This enables me to think a lot. It probably also screws with my posture and is the reason why I hate driving. I never was all that excited about driving. I used to think as soon as I could drive I would go tons of places. New York City, Los Angeles, Cancun, Zimbabwe, anywhere my car could take me I’d go! Then I discovered how much gas costs. And how much an oil change costs. And how much labor on car repairs costs. At times it seems like I only work to pay to own a car. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled in that thing.

When I moved to my current location I had planned on quitting my job after a few months and finding something better. The only real job I could probably get would be one that pays less than at my current one. There are also other problems. The first being that I’m not good-looking enough to work at Applebees. Have you seen the people who work there? Hubba-Hubba! It’s like you get rejected from Applebees and then pursue underwear modeling. I’ve written before how sexy I find waitresses. I’m currently dating a girl who works at Chilis. She doesn’t know we’re dating and I’m still waiting to say more to her than “Another Diet Coke please!” Our fingers touched once on the soda hand off. I hope she doesn’t realize I did that on purpose. I want her to think it’s fate. The only other reason preventing me from quitting my current job is being a coward. I’m too comfortable there. I’ve been there six years plus now. I know the ins and outs. I associate comfort with sadness and anger. Anything that feels comfortable also is a detriment in my life. Take my bed for instance. Very comfy. The problem with it? Not enough waitresses in it! And you thought you had it rough.

Today going to work I realized that my commute is entirely too long. Nobody should have to drive an hour to a job they don’t really like. I probably shouldn’t type out that I don’t like my job on the off-chance that a coworker or boss reads this. My logic is that they will read this, I will be called into a large room with a council of faceless individuals behind dark smoke, and they will on a giant computer visit my site and tell me why I am fired. Not only will this force me to get my ass in gear and try out something new, it would also give me an extra hit to my blog. Double score!

As an attempt to capitalize on my painfully long commute I have attempted to make a humorous list of things that let you know that your commute is too long. I think calling this humorous completely negates the possibility of this containing any slice of humor. Sorry to disappoint you. Now you understand how my family feels toward me.

1) Coldplay comes on the radio more than once

I don’t like Coldplay. A bearded 20-year-old found out that I liked Led Zeppelin and recommended Coldplay to me because of that. I punched him the groin soon there after.

Driving a lot gives me time to listen to a lot of radio. I am an expert into how many times certain songs are played. Never in the course of an hour except during a double shot should I have to suffer through two Coldplay songs. Do they not realize that I could kill someone with my vehicle out of anger? One an hour is plenty.

2) You know the morning, midday, and afternoon drive DJ names of at least 3 radio stations

Like I mentioned, I listen to a lot of radio. Even at home I do. Mostly sports talk which is painful this time of year because baseball and hockey are the only sports I’m committed to.

I’m probably the only person under the age of 84 who has radio programs that he enjoys and schedules his life around. I feel like Ralphie from A Christmas Story. The only difference between us is I already got my gun. It’s called my right arm.

3) You’ve seen 10 accidents in one day

I’ll be fair with this one. The day I saw 10 accidents was during that freak snow storm we had in the Northeast right before Halloween. It was like Armageddon out there.

In all of my driving (I’ve driven about 80,000 miles in my life) I’ve never been in an accident. I know I might be jinxing this and am shaking as I type this. I’m a very careful driver. People honk their horns at me and scream obscenities as I go 40 on the highway. This is their way of saying they’re jealous. Slow and steady wins the race.

4) People tell you to “get home safe” even when it isn’t a special occasion or bad weather outside

I know it’s sweet for people to wish me luck in getting home, but I can handle it. Imagine the one time someone does forget to say that and you die. That’ll haunt them for a few years.

Most of my drive is 35 miles down a highway which never has heavy traffic. I could probably do it with my eyes closed at this point. I never would though. Fall foliage between exits 47 and 52 keeps me alert. Nothing like bright oranges, reds, and browns to keep me from wanting to die.

5) You’ve eaten food off of the passenger seat of your car you got so hungry

To be fair it was a piece of cereal.

To be unfair I have no clue what type of cereal it was. Not even sure if it was from the previous owner or not.

6) You’ve gotten off at the wrong exit

When you drive the same route every day, you’d think you’d never make a mistake. It’s only happened once where I got off the wrong exit. Once too many.

I was only one exit early and it delayed me in getting home by about 10 minutes. I was really hungry and had already eaten the only piece of cereal I could scavenge from my passenger seat. I haven’t made the same mistake since. The taking the wrong exit thing. I still eat cereal I find.

7) Your check engine light comes on and turns off in the same drive

It’s never happened to me, but I’m sure it has to someone. There are people out there with much longer commutes than I have. Anything is possible.

My check engine light always comes on. No matter what car I own it’s inevitable. The mechanics always try to tell me that I should get it checked out. It always ends up being nothing. That’s why I don’t trust mechanics or ever take their advice. Sorry but white guys with hands that look like they belong on Flava Flav are not my role models.

8) You’ve come up with brilliant ideas that you forget because your idea has now turned into a conversation with yourself

I do this all the time. I have a lot of conversations in my head. I feel this isn’t as crazy as it reads. The crazy part is that most of my head conversations involve Jay Leno interviewing me on my newest movie. We laugh and go out for drinks after the show. That’s a taste inside my head.

The worst thing about getting a great idea when you’re driving is that you have to keep repeating it in your head so that you’ll remember it before writing it down. This stops you from having new brilliant ideas. Then when you get home you realize it wasn’t a great idea after all. Like my dream that I wrote down about a song that was about having the same birthday as the Pope.

Same as the Pope,

Same as the Pope,

Just like the Pope,

Same as the Pope.

I know my lyrics aren’t up there with the likes of John Lennon or Billy Ray Cyrus, but damn it at least I don’t have a hole in my head or slut my daughter around.

Cars are something I should be very thankful for. Believe it or not, they didn’t always exist. Many years ago we’d have to use animal backs to get around on. Animals probably hated this. It’s got to be rough to have THE CAMEL LIFE!!! or the life of a horse, elephant, or gigantic spider. People are always climbing on their backs. I almost don’t feel bad when they buck someone off.

I hope your commute isn’t very long. It can be hell driving a long distance to somewhere you really would rather not be at. I feel comfortable saying that I don’t want to be at work. Nobody wants to be there. Even my bosses say how much they hate it. Would they be going back to school in a completely unrelated degree field if they loved their job so much? Not unless they’re trying to throw me for a loop. Damn Illuminati. I’ve been foiled again!

Recently I had my ears lowered. This wasn’t some serious plastic surgery that I had to endure, no. It’s slang for getting a haircut. Don’t feel silly if you didn’t know that. Only people born in the 1930’s and fans of the television show Doug have ever used it.

It had been over a year since my last haircut. I usually get one haircut a year. I try to synch it up with the same day I change my bed sheets every year. I don’t know why it is. Just one of those strange family traditions like wearing red on Christmas or killing your father when you turn 18.

My head has been very cold since removing a good half of my weight off my head. I probably should have done it earlier, like when it was hot out and I was always sweaty. Perhaps I’m going crazy. Is this the start of my EVOLUTION OF INSANITY!!! I own several hats so things haven’t been too bad. If my head gets too cold I could always rub it on the backs of strangers to warm it up. They’ll think I’m being cute like a kitten. Or weird like a psychopath.

I was in desperate need of a haircut. Even I’d admit that. But I don’t go to barber shops. No. Not since a woman with long forearm hairs gave me a buzz cut and asked me what kind of drugs I’ve experimented with. It felt like a poorly operated sting to bust a good boy who stays away from drugs. I remember my mom waiting in the car. I never asked her to do that. I think she was too embarrassed to be seen with me.

This haircut was different from the rest. This one was done by myself. Yep, all by my lonesome. Nobody helped. Not a single living human being. Well, I guess the makers of the razor helped. And Tmobile for providing a camera phone which helped me take pictures of the back of my head to make sure I didn’t miss a spot. I’m still not sure if I did miss a spot either. That’s something I’ll probably never know. Until a bully points it out to me by rudely tugging on it like Santa’s beard. I don’t know why a child would ever tug on a mall Santa’s beard. That still doesn’t mean that Santa isn’t real. Maybe Santa has a fake beard too. Or decided to shave. I shaved my head finally after a year. What’s to stop Santa from shaving his beard after 6,000 years? (That’s how old archeologists believe Santa to be, approximately)

I’m proud of myself for being able to cut my own hair. It’s liberating. I like to think of it almost as a passage into adulthood. I’m no longer restrained to paying $10 to some vocational school student to make me look handsome. I am my own handsome maker. I don’t need any of my old barbers anymore. Not the girl with the long forearm hair. Not the guy who tried to sell me raffle tickets for a bike despite me not knowing how to ride a bike. Not the guy whose first name was Scott or his last name was Wolf. I can’t remember which was true. I do remember thinking that he might have been actor Scott Wolf, down on his luck.

I’ve lost some appreciation now for barbers. Sure, hair stylists have some talent. They’re artists for hair. I appreciate good art. I appreciate good hair. That’s why I have no beef with hairstyles who can do more than shave a head. To my credit, my hair was so long that I had to randomly cut patches out of it before the shaving. More points for me. I am better than you barbers. You are no longer needed in my life. You too women named Barbara. You’re just as useless to me now. And just to finish off with people I have no use for now, people with the last name Barbera. I only know two, cartoonist Hanna and elementary school friend of mine Michael. I’m tired of Yogi Bear and I’m even more tired of memories of friends I haven’t spoken to since 1997. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Hopefully Googling himself and then reaching this site. That would be kind of creepy. Maybe a potential boss of yours is reading this right now. Here, how about I ruin the chance at the job.

3 Reasons Not to Hire Michael Barbera:

1) He had a dog named Baron. Do you know who else had something named Baron? The Nazis! They had the Red Baron, a dog fighting pilot. See how this all connects here?

2) He liked a girl because she could throw a good spiral with a football. That’s shallow and kind of weird. You don’t want someone like that working for you do you?

3) He once hid nunchucks in his father’s tool drawer and blamed it on his brother Chris. His mother yelled at him “Michael, don’t be fresh!” and he admitted his guilt. Do you want someone who doesn’t stand their ground working for your company? A man who admits to lies? Did not think so.

That’s what you get for not keeping in touch asshole.