Random My Ass

No, that's not a new sex-term I made up, although the possibilities are essentially endless: "Yeah, RANDOM my ass, bitch!" But no, I'm referring to the expression Middle Eastern people use when they go through the security checkpoint at the airport...



Well, now I feel just as persecuted as them, except I'm white so I'll feel fine in a few hours. But it turns out the Department of Justice has selected me for a "random" drug test tomorrow morning at 6:45AM. Hmmmm... why does this seem peculiar? Could it be my less than exemplary work habits? My constant napping on the job? My mood swings, anger, depression, and general hatred towards all of my coworkers? Perhaps it's because I'm a young, mid-20's male who MUST be smoking marijuana cigarettes or snorting the devil's dandruff. Hogwash, I say! In point of fact, I haven't touched an illegal substance in years. Provided my man-dumplings aren't illegal in the District of Columbia.

I find it interesting that of all 60 employees here at my office, I am the one selected for this "random" drug test. Don't get me wrong, I welcome the opportunity. For these instances, I drink a gallon of water, overfill the cup, and then soak the walls in my stream of justice. Take that, you filthy DOJ narcs!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to inject some human growth hormone, Deca-durabolin, Winstrol, EPO, and maybe a multivitamin for good measure. The only substance they're going to find in me is PCA - Pure Concentrated Awesomeness. This, of course, will shatter the test tube.

Links On The Left, Part 6

As some of you may know, I am a CrossFit trainer at a gym in Washington, DC. This gym is called Primal Fitness. It was recently voted "Best Gym In DC" by some newspaper. I don't know, I find the texture and feel of ink-based publications to be morose. I've been working there for about a year, turning average people into athletes and turning athletes into fucking monsters. At least I like to think so.

For those that are curious as to what CrossFit is... oh, fuck off, I already explained it in an earlier post. Odds are, it's better than whatever you're doing to stay in shape now. Whether you're running three miles a day, doing benches presses and lat pulls, or just molesting your dog, I promise you CrossFit will get you in better overall shape. And by God, I might just be the man for the job. But probably not because it's entirely likely that I dislike you.

So if you're in the DC area and want to get a good workout in, stop by. Or if you'd like to see me take my shirt off in an effort to scare away drug addicts, that might be fun too.

I Take It Back, God Is A Prick

Dear Readers, I fear I am too depressed to even type. Each keystroke feels like a thousand nails piercing my delicate heart. I've lost a part of myself today. Not my penis, thank god, but I rarely get any good use out of that fucker anyways. No, I've lost something far worse and much more devastating. It feels as though God Himself has reached his giant pious hand right into my chest, torn apart my ribcage, removed my heart, taken a bite out of it, thrown it like a grenade with a looping overhand at a puppy refuge, at which point the poor innocent puppies and my fragile sense of being all explode with one demoralizing BANG. Oh lord, I find I no longer have the strength to type. I feel weary. Sad. Alone. Frightened. Oh, am I fearful for the future. How can I possibly be expected to go on? Young Werther ain't got shit on me. Behold, dear readers, I cannot continue like this. Instead, I will merely copy/paste the reason for my current state of despair. Earlier today, I received the following email from my beloved friend, Stevo...


Subject: There's been a death in the family

Quint,

You're my best friend so I wanted to break the news to you first. I'm not good with words so I'll just come out and say it. The Dragon Buffet is gone. It's been boarded up; the windows, the doors, everything. I'm not sure when it happened or why, but it's gone and it's not coming back.

Now we begin the grieving process. Make sure you have a strong support structure in place to help you through. For me personally, I'm relying on the Japanese buffet next to Big Y. If you don't have a favorite buffet in DC, promise me you'll go out and find one. No matter how alone you feel, there are lots of buffets out there willing to support you.

As for the Dragon... the world will little note, nor long remember what we said there, but it can never forget what we ate there.

I love you.

- Steve


At this point, I feel it would be appropriate to recount all of the cherished memories I experienced at the Dragon Buffet, but I'm afraid the pain is simply too much to bear at the moment. Perhaps another time, when the seas of my heart are not burdened with such sorrow...

There Is A God

Cast Away Proble--AWW SHIT!

It's very likely that someone has already made mention of this somewhere on the internet or at least in casual conversation, but nevertheless, I have to say it anyways. Just to be sure.

Remember the movie Cast Away with Tom Hanks? Decent flick. A little quiet. Beach scenes were nice. I don't think the director gave the volleyball enough lines, but that's Hollywood for ya. Anyways, does everyone here remember that package he held onto? Seriously, you don't? For fuck's sake. Alright, he's a FedEx employee flying over the Pacific, shit crashes, he survives, and wakes up on a beach on a deserted island. Here's what wikipedia says from there:

"After several FedEx packages from the crashed plane wash up on the island, Chuck begins to open them, looking for items to use for his survival. He finds a number of potentially useful items but leaves one package, painted with a pair of wings, unopened."

So he never ends up opening the package, makes it off the island, and delivers the fucker to some lady at the end. Or something triumphant and happy or whatever. Here's what gets me: what if there was something extremely useful? Like a satellite phone.

Oh fuck me. I just scrolled further down on the wikipedia page and found this:

"In a panel discussing the movie, director Robert Zemeckis joked that the unopened package contained a waterproof, solar-powered satellite phone. This led to a Super Bowl commercial that parodied the movie, which shows Chuck (though not played by Hanks) delivering the unopened package; as he does so, he asks the recipient 'by the way, what's in the package?' and she replies 'nothing much, just a satellite phone, GPS locator, fishing rod, water purifier, and some seeds.'"

Well, that totally ruins my joke. Typical Q. Steal jokes from your sub-conscious memories. Real mature, asshole.

Hulk Smash.

So I hate my job. And it makes me angry. Sometimes too angry. Unfortunately, not angry enough to turn me into a giant green superhero that smashes shit. For instance, a while back something got got fucked up somewhere. I don't remember exactly what happened, but my fuck, did it ever piss me off. I calmly locked my computer (for security reasons, of course), stood up from my desk, walked calmly to the bathroom, and almost ripped one of the stall doors off the fucking hinges. I got damn close, too.

Nothing that severe has occurred in some time, but this place sucks. And it's getting worse and worse. As much as I would LOVE to set homeless people on fire, their existence, while disgusting and generally unnecessary, almost seems like a better option than continuing to work in this fucking dump.

Regardless, I've come to realize that my slight anger issues should probably be addressed. And, as to be expected, rather than work, I decided to Google some anger management techniques. The ensuing result? I got fucking angry. Look at this shit...

When you're angry, your thinking can get very exaggerated and overly dramatic. Try replacing these thoughts with more rational ones. For instance, instead of telling yourself, "oh, it's awful, it's terrible, everything's ruined," tell yourself, "it's frustrating, and it's understandable that I'm upset about it, but it's not the end of the world and getting angry is not going to fix it anyhow."

Are they fucking serious? When I'm pissed off, I don't have time to string together a long, pussy-ass, flowery fuckface sentence. I barely have enough time to call the cab driver's mother a cunt before I rap him in the back of the head.

"Silly humor" can help defuse rage in a number of ways. For one thing, it can help you get a more balanced perspective. When you get angry and call someone a name or refer to them in some imaginative phrase, stop and picture what that word would literally look like. If you're at work and you think of a coworker as a "dirtbag" or a "single-cell life form," for example, picture a large bag full of dirt (or an amoeba) sitting at your colleague's desk, talking on the phone, going to meetings.

That's not funny. Okay, maybe a bag of dirt going to meeting is kind of funny, mainly because I've already given it a name and a back story (its name is Bill, he's a claims adjuster with three kids, and his wife is cheating on him with some high-grade lawn fertilizer). But really, this tip is worthless. How are you supposed to picture "funny" images when the only thing coming to mind is driving railroad spikes into someone's face?

Do this whenever a name comes into your head about another person. If you can, draw a picture of what the actual thing might look like.

Again, no can do. I don't think my supervisor would appreciate a wide array of penis drawings scattered about my desk. This is how I picture all of my coworkers.

It's best to find out what it is that triggers your anger, and then to develop strategies to keep those triggers from tipping you over the edge.

Well, I've discovered one of my triggers is shitty anger management device.