I’m not gonna cry. And I’m wavin’ goodbye.

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I will give credit where credit is due. Lambchop was the one who came up with hiding under the pool table in the day room while everyone was absorbed in “Suddenly Susan.” And she busted us out of Promises with nothing more than a plastic bag, some glitter putty, and a “how do you do?”

However, while I reward ingenuity, I also think we need some standards here at Vomitola, some best practices.  Lambchop, what else do you bring to under the table? How are we to move this organization forward? Once upon a time, the user orbited the content, but now the content orbits the user. We’re under the table, but we are the table. We have synergy and mobile applications and Twitter Twits to consider. Are we doing all we can to be Vomitola?

Oh God, I should shut my mouth while the shutting is good. Now we’re going to be forced to fill out peer reviews! As if group therapy wasn’t enervating enough. Lambchop, I promise to be complimentary if you stop trying to insinuate that I am an impostor who is just like the real Licketysplit, but with a terrible case of bacterial vaginosis.

Baby, it Ain’t Paris

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Remind me, why in the hoarhound did I book this vacation?!? First, I was separated from my Mary, and she had all the nips in her purse. So I made sure to tell the concierge that I absolutely cannot make it through a day without a gin and tonic or three. He nodded so sympathetically and then what do you think? If you said “began slicing the limes,” you would be wrong! I can tell you I caused quite a flap, so they put me in a room for hardcore deniers. Spending a day alone in stir with Billy Joel was not on my bucket list, thank you very much. Thank heaven for George Michael, that dirty old queen. His face may be tighter than his ass, but he passed me notes on rolling papers to pass the time.

I bet Licketysplit is having all the fun, making sock monkeys with Mickey Rourke and dropping lima beans in Kiefer Sutherland’s milk. She is a party all by herself.

I had just about given myself up for a goner, when I realized the door was not actually locked. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen. The dishwashers always know how to have a good time.

Stoned & Dethroned: defending our lives

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I don’t think I like it here at Promises at all. First of all, they expect you to eat the food. We don’t eat! I can’t even find the champagne locker. “Home-like” environment my perfect ass.

Let’s not even discuss where I had to conceal my fentanyl patches during intake. And Lambchop isn’t even allowed to be my roomie. She is locked down clear across the campus. We hope to rendezvous in the day room soon.

Mel Gibson is really taking that therapy puppet business to the next level. I preferred the old Mel, who knew his way around a jacuzzi. A real party guy. At least Alec Baldwin will be stopping by later to teach a class on voicemail etiquette. Hint: no one uses the phone anymore.

Tara Reid will be teaching Life Skills, and Lindsay Lohan will doing a seminar on “How to explain gaps in a résumé.” She is also co-moderating a panel on dressing and accessorizing for success with Winona Ryder.

Damn it, Lindsay, you are persuasive. I guess I could stand to revamp my résumé. What am I really good at? Why do I deserve to be Vomitola?

Well, I’m a people person, so I usually handle HR back at HQ.  I, like Tyra Banks, can tell within 3 seconds whether I will have any use for you at all. Not smizing? We have a special diversion program for that. Never let it be said that Vomitola does not nurture the staff. Sure, we may toss the occasional platinum cell phone, but how can we be responsible if someone opts to step into its path?

The more I think about it, the more I realize that this is what we were born to do. No faceless corporation could ever understand the creative process that is our lives. We’re going to have to appeal to the fans on this one. We’re going to have to cry on TV.

To Pose or be Deposed?

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That is the question!  Word has traveled abroad that the creatives at House of Vomitola are “dehydrated” and “suffering from exhaustion.”  These are terrible problems that all beautiful people seem to face.  What is it about the lack of sleep and enough Fiji water that makes one curl into a ball, weeping and motionless apart from occasionally putting one’s fist out for more klonipin?  Perhaps it is the crown what makes the head too heavy to lift. 

But Vomitola can’t be fired from Vomitola.  Over our bewigged and botoxed bodies!  They cannot take away our shiny keys to the executive lav!  I cannot use a toilet that does not feature the voice of Stephen Frye, telling me I am brilliant as my fanny is spritzed lightly with rosewater.  Surely we can offer our most insincere of mea culpas to our public, throw a really nice party, and we’ll be back to eating mini bruschetta off of a jewel encrusted sea turtle in no time.  What?  We have to go to Promises?  But we don’t believe in those.  But we must.  I hope there aren’t any Disney stars there right now, I would hate to have to beat any plump lipped tweens on my very first day at a new resort.  Hate is such a strong word, isn’t it?

Well, I suppose we must get to packing.  I go nowhere without bath salts, my ermine underwear, and my poor Pomeranian, Ernest, who had to be stuffed because he really just would not shut up.  Promises, promises!

The expendables: Vomitola on the chopping block

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We are sure of few things in life.

1) There is no situation that cannot be represented via a Google Images search on The Sims.

2) We are all born terminally ill. It is only a matter of time. Please, have a Kleenex. Get your affairs in order.

3) In the meantime, we may be quotable, but we are always replaceable!

Just the other day, we read that John Galliano had been fired not only from Dior but from John Galliano! Apparently it is a foolhardy idea to allow someone else to own over 90% of your eponymous brand.

You could say we sold our souls years ago, so Lambchop and I have been getting nervous: recently she was asked to fill out a self-assessment, and I was asked to fill out a job application. On paper. These are clear signs that we are dealing with lunatics who do not understand our devil-may-not-particularly-care approach to modern life.

So we wondered: could our very existence in its present form be in jeopardy? Sure, we’ve had our rough patches, our little stunts and tantrums, but we’ve always apologized! Could Vomitola be fired from Vomitola? What will happen to our 401(k)s? Can we elect to use COBRA? Will we deny ourselves unemployment benefits because we were terminated for cause?

Times are still so hard that they make John Boehner cry, so we have decided that we must protect our livelihood by proactively pleading our case before a jury of our peers. As soon as we secure some, for where might we find those can match us in wit, intellect, and beauty?

In the coming days or hours, depending on our schedules, we must dust off our resumes (do people still print those on giant panda skin?) and don the leotards of fierce physical competition.

We will defend ourselves to the death!

 

Hoo Dilly

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I had a rough start to my day when a bus cut me off, tried to run me off the road.  I backed up and tried to pass it on the left while it stopped for passengers, but then it came at me from the other direction, pushing me into an SUV.  I kinda had that star wars trapped-in-the-trash-compactor-seconds-from-the-crunching-of-bones feeling for a second there.  While that may seem pretty cool, I was surprised to find it was not. 

And it is (waah waaah) too cold and blustery and my dress is too tight and if you reeeeeally loved me…

In the interest of balance, this day has not been all bad.  It has not completely sucked the sheen from my grill.  Spicy tofu and eggplant for lunch, mighty fine.  And then I had to say “Adcocks” a bunch of times, because it is someone’s surname.  And that was pretty great.  Adcocks!  But then, Lo!  I came across Junderwear.  Brief jegging underwear for men and their dongles.

Hello, my name is Junderwear Adcocks, and my life is a pointless shell.  I inhabit a lonely cubicle,  my only source of adult converse being an automaton to remark on the weather or the relative position of the present moment to Saturday.  Beneath this frustrated husk beats the furious heart of an artist whose gentles are firm in the grip of Junderwear!

What more horror may be in store if I stubbornly insist on remaining awake?  Please try and keep your teeth in your jaw, and your dangles in your jundies and I will inform you in all haste.

Assessment Appraisal

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I completed my self-assessment.  Turns out I am awesome.  And I should be given plenty of moneys for unspecified purposes.  Dig your claws deeply into your armchair and wait and see how this turns out.  How did I calculate my raddness to a precise degree?  Using the scientific method, of course!

  • Ask a Question.  This part was easy.  Just how awesome is Lambchop?  Only a very little, like finding a really good skipping pebble?  Or a whole damn lot, like a really good burrito?!
  • Do Background Research.  I polled many of you on this question.  And I found the results to be rather skewed depending on the participant’s love of burritos.  Hrmm… 
  • Construct a Hypothesis.  Lambchop is not awesome, so much as super amazing.  Unless you don’t care for mexican food.  Then Lambchop might be the closest thing to awesome.  Please exclude things like contemplating the cosmos or the grand canyon.
  • Test Your Hypothesis by Doing an Experiment.  Obviously it was necessary for me to try and sleep with a lot of people, even though they were extremely hungry.  I have an excellent record on that, and that is all I am going to say about it.
  • Analyze Your Data and Draw a Conclusion.  Being way too lazy for charts and graphs, I settled for a rather raunchy doodle on the side of my desk blotter, which I would share with you, but I dribbled coffee on it.  All things considered (apart from our glorious cosmos), I am Awesome.
  • Communicate Your Results.  You are looking at it, bub!

    • Self Assessment

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    The devil has finally found the perfect instrument to torture me.  He tested me with those toe gloves, with phone calls to Verizon, and with the music of Katy Perry.  I may cringe, devil, but you cannot best a hardy thrillseeker like me with such paltry devices. 

    And then I was given a “self-assessment” to complete at work.  It is not like a self-exam where you can just *not* do it and say you did (sorry, doc!).  No, no.  It is a series of fire-ringed hoops to jump through in the hopes of landing in a pile of money at year end review.  Not really a pile so much as a a thin bit of tissue to keep you from scraping your bottom.   I am not new to the concept, however at my current firm, it is quite the fucking doozy.   The questions are lengthy and sound like something that can only be answered after a 3 day seminar in “teambuilding”.  I thought this kind of shit only existed in the world of Steve Carrell and John C. Reilly.  I read, laboriously, over the half dozen items.  I cried a little inside and put it away.  Over the next days I periodically thought, sweatingly, of the paper in my bag.  I wondered how the fuck I am supposed to talk about my ownership of processes and my business contributions.  Remember when it used to be enough if you would show up not smelling too drunk? 

    It’s a brave new world.  Time to justify my love.  Time to self-assess.  If only Katy would write a song about it.

    Oh do you believe in love there

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    I went swimming the other night, in one of those bath-water-warm hotel pools where I can stand flat in the deep end and still be barely chin-deep. Granted, I am a fine specimen, lengthy of leg and smooth as a dolphin. Others might not be so fortunate. They would submerge and sputter and get swimmer’s ear and die a painful death, overwhelmed by the bacteria of a thousand lost Band-Aids.

    The child will not enter water without hot pink arm floaties, not trusting that water will hold her up. Subcutaneous fat isn’t really one of her strong features, and Mr. H did allow her to get swept out into the Hyannis boat basin that one time. So she has a fear of whales, thinking one crept up underneath her and carried her off. We allow that it certainly must have been a shameless starving whale, and in no part adult negligence. If she’s ever actually eaten by a whale, she is to tickle its throat until it sneezes, and then she will be fine. There are no whales in a pool, I remind her.

    After a few turns around the perimeter, she finally realizes she can walk in the shallow end, and off come the floaties. She makes me walk around the pool with one hand under her chest as she furiously and ineffectively paddles with clenched fists. We get to the not really deep end again, and I step on the pool intake cover, which is surprisingly sharp and puts an impressive dent in my toe. Of course I think of this.

    Back on go the floaties, and I decide to totally ditch her and practice the aquatic skills shamed into me from Girl Scout camp. Don’t you want to be a fucking minnow? What is wrong with you? Look, Jessica is a carp! I do the crawl, the breast stroke; I even break out the butterfly, which is met with derision. I also remember swimming caps are vaguely important in these endeavors if one wishes to see where one is going. The bottom of my swimsuit almost comes off because food is no longer of interest.

    One highway exit away, someone we love is having trouble breathing. He is also tired of eating, yet still not tired of living. We have called it a night after visiting and gone swimming to wear ourselves out.

    I decide I will pass the life guard swimming test and tread water for ten minutes. I could totally cheat if I wanted, owing to my superior leg length and the inferiority of the pool, but I keep at it. I am a floundering veal calf. If I were in the middle of a river or ocean, I wouldn’t have a prayer. I could flip onto my back and float, but I would forget to do this in the panic of screaming muscles and waterlogged lungs. I sink. I come back up. I’m going down for the second time.

    People who are actually drowning find it physically impossible to speak. Still, we do our best until the point of no return. Lord willing and the water don’t rise, in two weeks I will play Scrabble with a fine man.

     

     

    Whist in the mist

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    This is what the world looked like today from atop my three speed this morning.  Just to add to the sepia-toned feeling of crossing the bridge in the fog, I passed a man on a bicycle weaving up the incline in a newsboy cap, pinstriped knickers and jacket.  Smoking a cigarette. Must have lungs of iron.  Or will have.  Wackity shmackity doo!

    I have received a couple letters.  The major gift givers seem disinclined to favor me this year with any giant novelty checks.  Chagrin!  Damn their calfskin boots and their facial fillers!  I hold out hope that a huge pot of money will fall on my head from the sky.  Oprah says I deserve it!  What?  She said that to you, too?  Despite the hairstyle which adorns your head like a blown out moccasin??? Oh, those are also still *IN* you say.  I went to see my style consigliere this weekend, and am assured that my destiny is well in hand.  Or perhaps trodden underfoot.  I wasn’t really listening.

    The next weeks stretch out in front of me like a mouthful of gummi worms.  Work, work, new IUD.  Mildly pleasing, relatively inoffensive.  I have been reading that it is destructive to wonder if one’s life is “good enough”.  Good enough for what?  If you are reading this, let’s face it, your life is good.  At least one of your eyeballs is in your head and you obviously have an excellent vocabulary.  Send the rest of your complaints where they belong, to be muffled in the fog.