american feelings

Getting to Know You, Pt. 1

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 14:56:00 +0000

I'm going to take down the American Feelings fourth wall for a bit here in order to document some goings-on over at LinkedIn. I acknowledge that this is a bit masturbatory and troll-feeding in nature, so take from it what y'all will. I promise to return to blank-stare-inducing humor -- perhaps even within the context of this thread -- lickety-split.

Some background:

Late last week I received a LinkedIn network invite. The sender was not familiar to me -- nor had he included a personal message in his request -- so I browsed his profile to see how we might be acquainted. He has 500+ connections. He is in St. Louis; I lived there for several years. We have a couple mutual connections, but they are loose at best (one I have not spoken to in perhaps five years, the other I've spoken to twice). Because I take LinkedIn more seriously than I do Facebook, because I believe a network connection implies trust (or at least acquaintance), because he did not provide me any reason to believe I wasn't just another of the 500+ notches on his bedpost, and because LinkedIn by its very nature discourages meaningless connections, I clicked the button which most accurately described my relationship to the sender:

"I don't know this person".

Shortly thereafter, I received this LinkedIn message:

Subj: My Apologies

I was reaching out to you because I was informed that you could quite possibly be the perfect creative force to design and deliver a website that I have secured funding for....but obviously not. Yes, paid work with equity.

Sorry I interrupted your day with an invite.

Kind Regards,

Dxxxx

To which I replied ...

Subj: Re: My Apologies

Dxxxx,

I try to engage in equitable working relationships, such that neither party feels they are being exploited -- or doing the other a favor. For _this_ reason I am likely not the right creative force for your project.

However, to insinuate that I am somehow rendered incompetent because your original invite was indiscernible from LinkedIn spam is, well, just plain immature.

Cheers,

M

To which he replied ...

Subj: Re: My Apologies

Matthew,

It was a small test of the universe and well, you simply failed.

And as for immature I guess that now someone with an email address of forgiven@babyimsorry.com is capable of judging the rest of the normal world.

Wow! Clearly the wrong person.

Again my apologies.

Dxxxx

To which I replied ...

Subj: Re: My Apologies

Dxxxx,

The novelty of your approach is not lost on me.

My marketing background has taught me a few communication principles which, I admit, I perhaps rehash too frequently. Foremost, I try to speak clearly and directly. Especially within forums where self-edification is the norm, I try to construct introductions that are meaningful to the audience. In a new twist, you engage in tests of the universe, a technique favored by the Nigerian prince. Then, when those tests are not met with your desired -- yet unarticulated -- result, you resort to personal insult and sarcasm. In your estimation, would it be unprofessional for a fisherman to curse the fish that failed to bite an unbaited hook?

If you define success as the opportunity to work on a project with you, we have different definitions of success. I imagine that this will not sit well with you, because it seems that you wish me to feel the sting of a missed opportunity. That perhaps, if I had just accepted a complete stranger into the my professional network of trust, I would see benefit tenfold. Perhaps if you explained your project in detail to me -- reminding me of all that I have now lost -- you would achieve your desired, unarticulated result.

Unapologetically,

Matthew

PS In your first email -- at least, the one where you first saw fit to include a personal message -- you mentioned that you had been informed that I might be the right creative resource. May I ask who or what informed you?

To which we shall see ...

Alternate Titles

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 21:48:00 +0000

Y'all Come to Hell Now, Ya Hear?
Please Join Me At Your Earliest Convenience (in Hell)
Wish You Were Burning

And if you're gonna do work in the woods ...

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 15:34:00 +0000

Before putting your ear to the rail, check if a train is coming.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 04:16:00 +0000

The boss had seen fit to purchase a brand new Escalade in spite of it all. In spite of the depressing sales outlook. In spite of the paychecks he couldn't write. In spite of his office's noodle-thin parking lot.

And somehow parking became the rallying cry of the disgruntled. Sandwiched in an alley, the slender strip of asphalt held cars like an aircraft carrier, diagonally and wing to wing. Even before the behemoth's arrival, pulling in took precision. Backing out took ages.

But now, where the brand new Escalade stopped, so too did the parking lot. Four spots in or eight, the math was simple. None shall pass.

"What, do you expect me to park it on the street?" the boss reasoned, "it's a brand new Escalade."

He showered it with attention. Once a week, a representative from the nearby carwash would jog over -- jog -- to retrieve the keys, drive it off to a thorough cleaning, and swiftly return. Once a week, in addition to the preexisting claustrophobia, this sudsy interloper would rearrange the boundaries mid-day, trapping employees like miners in a cave-in.

During one such week, there emerged a great calamity from that parking lot. The commotion spilled into the office, bringing with it dire words like "crashed" and "his brand new Escalade". Before gawkers could even muster, the boss sped through the office and toward the side door. He was met at the threshold by a new representative from the nearby carwash: a young man with slouched shoulders, a terrified look, and an eyepatch.

Pizza sends out for YOU.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 20:38:00 +0000

When I was 15 I worked at a Pizza Hut with a manager who admitted to suffering regular, severe acid flashbacks. I several times took an order from a customer that didn't exist on a phone that wasn't ringing just because he looked at me with those crazy eyes and said "are you gonna answer that?"

Operation: Ventriloquitler

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 16:53:00 +0000

Incognito

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 27 May 2009 23:42:00 +0000

It was Mom's birthday, or maybe Mother's Day -- one of those days that comes every year and yet for which I am totally unprepared -- and she had requested a family lunch. The three of us had submissively agreed. We would do our best to keep it cordial, of course. This is not to say that we did not care for eachother's company -- we did and do -- but the swiftness with which we ran out of conversation might otherwise be attributed to knockout gas.

Mom had chosen a small French-fusion boutique on the West side of town. Le Whatever. It enjoyed some degree of novelty from the unique brownstone in which it pretensed. Tall windows. High ceilings. Touches of art nouveau. My mother immediately took an above-average interest.

"How much of this do you think is original?" she asked.

"Some." I replied, simultaneously being accurate and a total dick.

We sat down at the usual white-clothed cafe table. Mom was unusually chatty.

"The owner of this place has two other restaurants in town," she grinned, "one of them is very well rated in Zagats and referred to as someplace to 'see and be seen' as long as you 'don't mind another diner's elbow in your souffle'"

She may have said more. We ordered.

"That sounds just amazing!" Mom emoted.

"Oooh, what's in that?"

"May I have a taste?"

Her enthusiasm was equal parts refreshing and disconcerting. It was her day, and we wanted her to be happy. But we also wanted her to be drug-free.

The second act -- the long moments between ordering (talking about what we were going to eat) and eating (not talking; talking about what we were eating) was, under normal circumstances, and opportunity to collect one's thoughts. I found myself daydreaming a bit, listening to clinks of flatware and ambient music, and I must've flickered a self-congratulatory smile after recognizing a somewhat obscure song.

"What song is this?" asked Mom, suddenly gave a shit.

I told her. She nodded thoughtfully.

Each of us was inspired to some degree by the sudden shot of maternal enthusiasm, yet also a bit wary of it. I looked at my father, who shook his head at me almost imperceptibly. I saw in it a whisper:

"I have no fucking clue, my boy. No fucking clue."

The meal was, in fairness, worth talking about, so the banter was sustained. Mom led the way, of course, at this point the most recognizable voice in the restaurant. She chewed with her eyes closed and noted nuances of each dish as she pecked away at plates not technically her own.

"Yours has a hint of morel, doesn't it?" she said, squinting at some unseen hovering fungus.

The display continued until, content and lethargic, we made our way back to the car. After perhaps a block, my (strangely) silent mother betrayed what I assumed was gastrointestinal distress. But what I at first thought was a grimace transformed into an unrestrained shit-eating grin. She burst the silence one last time:

"OK OK I WAS A SECRET SHOPPER BACK THERE!"

The stickiest hands on Tatooine

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 17:22:00 +0000

St. Louis, it should be noted, has a disproportionate number of women who like to skate and punch. It makes sense that they so readily support all-girl roller derby.

One particular match had a Star Wars theme ("Scar Wars", specifically) and, being shortly before Halloween, brought out costumed players and spectators alike. A sight, a stormtrooper with a PBR.

During intermission, a psychobilly emcee invited all interested spectators onto the rink to participate in the Star Wars costume contest. On they shuffled, like the exodus of last call at Mos Eisley Cantina: all ages and sizes of Jedi, the periodic plastic Vader, a handful of geekporn Leia -- and one diminutive, confused-looking Spider Man. At once, everybody's buddy mumbled the same crack (variations on "I totally freaked when I found out that Vader was Spider Man's father"), but the pajamic webslinger was so adorably out of place that no one had the heart to be mean spirited.

The emcee organized the contestants from tallest to shortest (Wookies to Jawas), and began eliciting audience applause to determine the intergalactic winner of cash, candy, and trinkets. Most participants were rewarded only with respectful applause -- Leia's torso drew a few hoots -- and the roller derby crowd was decidedly subdued for being so decidedly sauced.

Still, as the emcee scuttled down the line toward the young and squirming, a chant seeped from the bleachers.

"Spi-der Man ... Spi-der Man ..."

Others heard it and quickly added to the cacophony.

"Spi-der Man ... Spi-der Man ..."

The noise triggered the tiny arachnid's Spidey Sense, and soon he was spinning around, trying to echolocate his supporters (his eyes had been rendered useless the moment they became misaligned with the holes in his mask).

"Spi-der Man ... Spi-der Man ..." Louder and louder, as the emcee shirked droids and Ewoks.

As muttonchops held his hand over the penultimate contestant, the crowd seemed to find perfect synchronization. Their cheery chant -- in fact, all noise -- seemed to break cleanly as they drew a unified breath.

The emcee filled the gap: " ... and how do you guys feel about ..."

"SPIDER MAAAAAAAN!" they ALL erupted, of single mind and voice, scaring the living daylights out of that kid.

Das Delorean

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 17:17:00 +0000

Greg's 82 Volkswagen, "Spence"
Was a time machine (well, in a sense)
By the time eighty-eight
Was his traveling rate
'Twas seventy five minutes hence

Whatcha got there? Oh. A biscuit. Um, I'll pass.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 16:18:00 +0000

Now I wouldn't say my dog, Bob
Perpetually acts like a snob
But we drove past some deer
And I swore I could hear
Him lean out and bark "Get a job!"

Just in time for Valentine's Day: Romantic advice from my 92-year-old grandmother:

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 19:48:00 +0000

"Take off your garters, roll down your stockings, and stand on your head."

And worse with a hot plate.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 18:27:00 +0000

There was a nice hooker from Paris,
Who with her rice cooker was careless.
Atop the hot pot,
She popped an odd squat,
Now from navel to asshole she's hairless.

And salty.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 15:51:00 +0000

Though he was the size of a tater,
Mick's dick was a true multi-stater,
The minute he came to town,
All the girls gath'red round,
And his junk arrived ten minutes later.

Killing This Dead Meme Dead

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 18:41:00 +0000

There once was a pirate Somali
Who terrorized Bangkok to Bali
With his one unpatched eye
He still managed to cry
At the last 15 minutes of Wall-E

How to tell these two things apart:

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 14:53:00 +0000

If it's fun, it's Tetris.

If it's not fun, it's tetanus.

Once we've perfected time travel,

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 22:06:00 +0000

statements like "I haven't peed since Milwaukee" will totally lose their impact.

I probably should put a disclaimer on here somewhere.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 18:50:00 +0000

The finest fellatrix on Earth
Costs every penny she's worth.
Through mouthwork and pinches
She'll add on three inches
(At the expense of two inches in girth).

Another, presumably NSFW.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 18:48:00 +0000

There once was a hooker from Boston
With a twat a train could get lost in.
To trek lip to lip
Required a steam ship
Took three weeks and was fucking exhaustin'.

Lesser of Two

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 14:49:00 +0000

In line and patiently waitin'
For my civil participatin'
Hoping "less of the same"
Thus more of a shame
When Obama turns out to be Satan.

Fresh Meat

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 18:42:00 +0000

Flipper

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 15:25:00 +0000

Her deluxe vibrator, "Sir Jolts",
Was rated at ten thousand volts.
'Twas metallic, non-porous
and felt like a porpoise
with a cock that shot pink lighting bolts.

In the traditional style:

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 16:11:00 +0000

There once was a burly Sri Lankar,
Who crewed a Pacific oil tanker,
And at each port of call,
He'd impress one and all,
When he used his prick for an anchor.

It's because he's yellow.

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 20:37:00 +0000

Blessed are those who've retired,
In the bullshit they're no longer mired,
"Better that guy than me",
Said without sympathy,
Did I mention my friend just got fired?

Better With a Mop

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 03:35:00 +0000

There once was a goatmaiden, simple but pretty, who came to see the wizard under most distressing circumstances. She had made the four day walk to the castle in a little under seven days -- fine time for a one-footed dwarf -- and, per usual, pleaded for the wizard's assistance.

"Please, wise wizard," she genuflected, "please save our village from the marauding barbarians -- who murder and kidnap and lustfully force their large bodies upon us -- and also from temptation ..."

The wizard replied: "THIS I SHALL DO FOR YOU. FOR I AM THE GREAT GOZOOMBU!", his glowing, 60-foot disembodied head mugging heroically.

"Oh thank you!" pogo'd the goatmaiden, "I knew you would come to our aid!"

The wizard nodded.

"And please, wise wizard," she bowed, "please bring rain to our valley. The earth is but dust, our crops are withering away, and we haven't enough food for our people."

The wizard replied: "NO FEAT IS IMPOSSIBLE. FOR I AM THE GREAT GOZOOMBU!"

"Thank you thank you thank you!" she gushed, "all that has been said of you is true! You are a wise and benevolent wizard, a savior of our people!"

The wizard nodded.

The goatmaiden paused and, blushing, steadied herself for one last request.

"Wise wizard, I hesitate to even ask, but your powers seem boundless ..."

She drew a breath.

"Wise wizard, please find me a prince. My father is old and can no longer care for me, and my mother is beginning to wonder. For all our hardships, all that is missing from my life is the love of a brave and noble man."

The wizard replied: "NO."

" ... no?"

"NO. FOR I AM GARY THE JANITOR AND TOTALLY FUCKING WITH YOU!"

Bullshit Sampson

noreply@blogger.com (tokyocrunch) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 03:31:00 +0000

She asked me why I got into this business.

I told her "I want to make the world a better place. I think that the greatest impact can be had where the money is. With how people spend. With how companies earn."

I told her "because I'm a liar," and she didn't question it.