13 July, 2009

On this day two years ago, I was an angry, angry man.

Pardon the "classic post" from July 13th, 2007, but I've been staring at the screen for an hour and a half and all I can think of is running out and getting spaghetti sauce. Could be marinara, could be alfredo, whatever, I just need something I can put on pasta and I don't have enough vegetables to warrant a pesto.
Anyway, I'm sure you'll pardon the tone of this post; I was still very green at blogging at the time. Complicating matters was that I was blogging under time constraints from having to use public computers, that I was an alcoholic and an insomniac, that I was angry at my ex-fiancée for stranding me in the big city on my own, and (as you're about to read) that I was getting the least romantic ass-reaming I've ever received from my student loan lender.
As with most of the "classic posts", where I see something that needs amending, I'll slip into something more comfortable to do so, and as with all "classic posts", this one is indeed abridged.
But, man, if I wasn't one angry motherfucker back then.

Charlie the Taoist vs. the Corporate Beard

I've got a chip on my shoulder and no mother-loving dip, so to speak.

Let's start with Sallie Mae, who, unbeknownst to me, decided that they were just going to take me out of deferment status WHILE I WAS STILL IN SCHOOL, FERFUCKSAKE! That's right, regardless of whether I was in school, therefore incapable of working 40 hours a week (and I was busting my ass to make 32 hours), therefore incapable of paying $1500 per month (and that's a rough estimate, as each and every department that I've been in contact with seems to have different numbers; one said $1100, one said $1400, one said $1500), Sallie Mae just up and decided that I had run out my deferments (which is bullshit, according to IPR's director of financial aid; I can defer for up to 24 months, my deferment schedule would've barely given a baby kiss to month 21). So instead of sending me a bill (as we had been through it roughly a half dozen times, now) in a timely fashion, they decided to wait until I was 20 days overdue on a $1500 payment to call my cosigners. Sallie Mae has insisted that they emailed me a bill. Nobody emails a fucking bill. I ought to know, because I never got one. I check my school email every week for the latest job leads. I don't see any fucking bills. (And it should be known that I do consider these "fucking" bills, as lately every time I fart it sounds like a whistle.) So I really only had 10 days to get paperwork together and fight this got-damned mess (clever bastards, they are, making me late, trying to strong arm me on account of their interdepartmental screw up), and then when I got the paper work together, they wanted to come up with some bullshit excuse, so of course I go to the school to sic my junkyard dogs on them. Everybody knows I want to nail Maureen, Still do. that's a given, but now I must use her for something other than the fuck-puppet I so debauchedly thought about whilst rendering my blubber into oil. That's a good one. I ought to reuse that. I've got to use her for her powers of revenge, like mothra-fucking Taarna the Tarakian at the end of Heavy Metal, B.
J.R., he's a scrappy little feller, but he's my main liaison to Sallie Mae in this mess, and gets pissier with them on the phone than I had previously thought was allowed. If you're wondering, the closest I got to any sort of perceived victory was lowering my monthly payments from US$1500/month to US$200/month, meaning that I'll be paying the damned thing off well into my late thirties unless somebody gives me a fuckin' job.

That's that. And that being that, for what it is, brings us to yesterday, in a little section I like to call:

It happened at work, again. Again. The subject of why I don't sign my name to the list comes up, again. Y'see, we have to sign this fucking sheet every time we complete our paperwork, Oh, man, I fucking hated that list. It was basically the "Who can we fire?" list. and I don't do it. I have my reasons. Nobody bothers to ask me why, I don't bother to tell anybody why. Because I was never officially required to sign the thing, only requested to "play ball". After all, what am I going to do, make a big spectacle out of it, raise my voice every time I could just (and do) quietly decline and say "Taoists don't frown upon much, but if they do frown on anything it's competition!" Since then I've lightened up on things but you know how it is; when you first find something you believe in, you are completely 100% about it. But I still tell people to go fuck themselves when they say, "But you like baseball." Sure, and you read the Bible and fuck before marriage. Eat my ass. But yesterday at work, people wanted to know why, again, and chief among those was the Queen of the Shit-Heap herself, Trimstin. You see, I called her Trimstin as a reference to the landlady in Next Friday, to whom Ice Cube says, "I like how you got that trimmed up," in reference to her moustache. Because, you see, Trimstin has a moustache. So now we've got two or three people in the office raising their voice and me raising my voice to say that I just want left out of it when Trimstin decides to pronounce loudly that my beliefs are "primitive". "Primitive". Just so everybody's on the same page here, please refer to the link above for Taoism Does that link even work anymore?, and then check these definitions for "primitive" as supplied by Merriam-Websters, B.
Main Entry:
Middle English primitif, from Latin primitivus first formed, from primitiae first fruits, from primus first — more at prime
14th century
1 a: not derived : original, primary b: assumed as a basis; especially : axiomatic <primitive concepts>2 a: of or relating to the earliest age or period : primeval primitive church> b: closely approximating an early ancestral type : little evolved <primitive mammals> c: belonging to or characteristic of an early stage of development : crude, rudimentary <primitive technology> d: of, relating to, or constituting the assumed parent speech of related languages <primitive Germanic>3 a: elemental, natural primitive feelings of vengeance — John Mackwood> b: of, relating to, or produced by a people or culture that is nonindustrial and often nonliterate and tribal <primitive art> c: naive d (1): self-taught, untutored <primitive craftsmen> (2): produced by a self-taught artist primitive painting>

Main Entry:
15th century
1 a: something primitive; specifically : a primitive idea, term, or proposition b: a root word 2 a (1) an artist of an early period of a culture or artistic movement (2): a later imitator or follower of such an artist b (1): a self-taught artist (2): an artist whose work is marked by directness and naïveté c: a work of art produced by a primitive artist d: a typically rough or simple usually handmade and antique home accessory or furnishing 3 a: a member of a primitive people b: an unsophisticated person
Thank you, Webster.
So, now I'm getting steamed Getting steamed now again, too, but it's old news. but insisting that the office is not the time or place to have this conversation and from Wendy I get, "Oh, come on, Charlie, we're just joking around."
I respond with, "Yeah, real funny, what do you believe in, by the way?"
That's when Trimstin comes out with "Charlie, you need to take a chill-pill [yes, she said the words "chill-pill"], this is not an appropriate conversation for the office." What a fucking mastery of the obvious.
If it pleases the court, I would like to revisit something I said three paragraphs ago:
So, now I'm [...] insisting that the office is not the time or place to have this conversation...
And let's see what happened in the last paragraph:
That's when Trimstin comes out with "Charlie [...] this is not an appropriate conversation for the office."
So I'm standing there thinking "Well fucking duh!" So I says to her, "I am chill, I want out of the conversation."
Trimstin tells me again to chill out, by again using the words "chill-pill". Now she's yelling that she's not even joking. Well, I can't let the bitch have the last word, so I get it in there and I go back to work. WHISKEY. TANGO. FOXTROT. Fuck it. Who cares? Blah, blah, blah, you're all a bunch of fucking imbeciles, let me do my job.
Y'know, when Kathleen in upper management bitched about the Christmas tree offending her Jewish heritage, they took the thing down, no questions asked. And of course, they quietly bitched about Christmas spirit and shit like that. Mr. Honky McTaoism says he doesn't like competition, and he's a figure of fun and everybody, his own fucking lady-friend included, tells him his belief is full of shit and that he's wrong about competition. George even wanted to challenge me on my beliefs because I play Uno and enjoy baseball, insisting that it's like a Jewish person that won't eat bread off of a plate that has pork on it. (Which is to her awfully silly and doesn't make much sense, despite that these people live their fucking religion, and she's probably only studied it, at most, so, yeah, let's all tell the Kosher Jews to "lighten up" based solely on the fact that their beliefs are foreign to us and they should really try to be more like us, then let's burn a cross on someone's lawn during Kwaanza, why don't we?)
Wait wait wait, can we rewind the tape and play that last part again?
... they should really try to be more like us, then let's-
No no no, the part before that.
George even wanted to challenge me on my beliefs -
Yeah, that one.
George even wanted to challenge me on my beliefs because I play Uno and enjoy baseball, insisting that it's like a Jewish person that won't eat bread off of a plate that has pork on it.
Can I see that in a bold?
George even wanted to challenge me on my beliefs because I play Uno and enjoy baseball, insisting that it's like a Jewish person that won't eat bread off of a plate that has pork on it.
Thank you. I now know why we broke up.
Was I asking to be challenged? Did I ever claim to be a textbook definition of Taoism and inner-peace and whatnot? At the time, yeah, I was pretty zealous. Fuck no, got-damnit. Cock-suckers.

Oh, and I'm changing my name to Cathal. It's the Gaelic for Charlie. And we've seen how well that worked out.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.