I got a voice mail from a female asking me to return the telephone call to 573-1729. The only other thing I could understand on this message was “this is very important to me, have a blessed day.” When I attempted to return the telephone call, I explained to her that she had left a message, but I couldn’t understand the rest of the voice mail and I was returning her telephone call. She told me that if I didn’t know who I was calling, I had the wrong number. The person I spoke with was clearly the same person that left the voice mail. I have no recollection of anyone with this number and think I may have gotten the voicemail by mistake. Have any of you all attempted to make contact with someone at this number? I sure don’t want her to fall through the cracks!
Darlene-Lynn Brown
Employed Vagabond
From: Aaron Simon
Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 9:52 AM
To: Darlene-Lynn Brown
Subject: RE: Missed a phone call???!!(!)
Darlene:
I’m so, super psyched that you felt the need to tell us that you received a phone call. Here I was, wondering whether or not Darlene keeps her work phone hooked up throughout the day, and then, verily, the Lord blesses me with an answer in the form of a missed call. Truly, we live in Holy times.
Often, I receive odd calls. Sometimes, they are in Spanish, as it turns out that the previous owner of my cell phone number was an immigration lawyer. Now, the only foreign language I can speak is French, and—even then—I sound like a mentally deficient five year old. (Or, alternatively, you. I’m joking. Or am I?) So, naturally, being as compelled as I am to get in contact with these people, I will return their phone call, but only to shout, “JE NE PARLE PAS ESPAGNOL! JE NE PARLE PAS ESPAGNOL!” The people then start shouting in Spanish, and I have to continue shouting in French until either my throat starts bleeding or they hang up. Generally, after that, they don’t call again. May I suggest trying that?
I have a very important question for you, and I want you to devote all of your mental faculties to answering it: In your wall of text, you mention that a female called you. My question is this:
A female of what species?
Darlene, I know you are Southern, and thus believe science is some Satan-led plot to destroy Christianity, but you must realize that a female of any species other than homo sapiens using the telephone would be earth shattering. The way we view life would change monumentally and it would be you in the spot-light.
Maybe you could afford some language classes so you wouldn’t tack on an extra eight syllables to every word. You know. Food for thought.
Anyway, please let me know. Unlike you, I have many friends in the hard sciences would would be absolutely pumped to hear about this sort of stuff.
While I’m working on another book, there’s been a distinct lack of posts on the site. You have my sincerest apologies. In an attempt to make it up to you, I’ve gotten in contact with a certain street urchin who’s posted on this site before. He agreed to “write” a guest post for you in honor of Charles Dickens’s birthday.
The only edits I’ve made have been spelling when it hasn’t taken away the charm of Tim’s distinct writing style. Clarity and cohesion be damned.
Hullo there, friends! It’s me, Tim Timiny Cheerio Idiot again and let me tell you, it has been a long while since I was last able to put me thoughts down on paper. It is like that mostly because I had a job at a steel mill! That was fun! There was all sorts of men who looked at me all weird-like and said, “Boy, yer accent is fuckin fake, don’t fuck with us.” But my accent isn’t fake because I’m from London Town and this is how we all talk at least from the time when I was born. I can’t die, you know. It’s because a Gypsy woman put a curse on me when I was ten and stole a pocket watch from her because it was shining in the light and my boss the man who takes things said, “Timothy, you go steal that watch or I’ll beat the piss outta ya” and so I did. But the Gypsy woman caughted me and said, “No,” and then put a curse on me that made me never age or die.
So you’ve found yourself in a den of racism—oh, no!
What was until this point a gathering of like-minded individuals in a social setting, filled with hope, promise, and joy, has suddenly turned into the Nuremberg Rally. And you happen to be the sole minority in a crowd of goose-stepping fascists.
But don’t worry, there are ways out of this predicament. First, though, you have to figure out what kind of racists these people are. Let’s take a look, using the scientific Simon Strata of Shitheads, Racist Edition.
Overt Racists – These are the fellows who have barbed wire tattoos on their biceps, wear shirts that feature either Confederate flags[1] or swastikas,[2] and have no qualms about telling you what they think the NBA stands for.
Casual Racists – The name tells you everything you need to know. This is a group found quite often in the South[3] for various reasons, each as stupid as the last. While overt racists mean to really take down other groups by any means necessary, casual racists just don’t really know what they sound like to anyone that’s outside of their own social strata. While overt racists are to be hated or feared, casual racists are to be pitied.
Casual, Stupid Racists – These are people whose brains are little more than silly putty. Like silly putty, if they view mainstream media, they will repeat—ad nauseum—everything they see that draws laughs, even if they don’t understand the context which makes it funny. Especially when they don’t understand it[4]. You’ll be able to spot this person by hearing incessant quotes from Family Guy, South Park, and regurgitated, horrible memes from the /b/ board of 4Chan[5]. The CSR is harmless because they lack a working mind, but that shouldn’t stop you from mocking them and/or throwing a punch as the case may be.
So, now that you’ve identified which group you’re dealing with, you need to get out of this. In my never-ending mission to assist my fellow man, I’m going to provide some suggestions. But, above all, good luck. You’re gonna need it.
It’s been a while since I’ve had anything to post on here. Sorry for that. I guess. (I haven’t checked my stats in a while, so God only knows if anyone loads the site on days when I don’t post anything. [And no, man, I’m not going to, like, check that shit. I got stuff to do.])
Anyway, it hit me this morning as I was walking out of the restroom that people really need me to tell them how to live their lives. I mean, come on. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, am a published author (yay), and have been to other countries. You don’t get much cooler than me.
So with that in mind, I thought about it and realized that I have two pieces of advice for people:
Be as Dudelike as you can
If you’re playing Pyro, friggen airblast people when they’re on fire
He cares, deep down inside.
Then I realized that would make for a shitty blog post, so I decided that I’d come up with some stuff that actually mirrors the rare occasions that I have a fully coherent thought. (FACT: It’s taken me six days to write this many words.)
So I did what came naturally and decided to base things off of my family. Names omitted because, well, yeah. Read more…
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Monday, January 9, 2012 9:34 AM To: _EVERYONE Subject: FYI: From The New York Times
Nursing Homes To Patients: “Meh”
Nursing homes have been making the news for tragic reasons more than anything else. Recently, in a nursing home in Tennessee, an orderly broke a resident’s legs and then left that resident in their room, screaming, for six hours while “on break.”
The orderly was quoted as saying, “Bitch deserved it.”
This isn’t an isolated case. In nursing homes across the country, staff are abusing residents in record numbers for perceived injustices perpetrated against them by residents and management.
In Oregon, two orderlies took a paraplegic resident on a walking path and then stole his wheelchair to pawn for “drinking money.”
The nursing home has not reprimanded the orderlies other than telling them, “Do it quietly next time,” according to in-house memoranda forwarded to the New York Times by concerned staff.
Local law enforcement are reticent to step in and put a stop to the matter because, according to a police chief in Mississippi, “I got my mother-in-law in one a them homes. Reckon they’re the reason she can’t speak no more, but, hell, they did me a favor.”
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Monday, January 9, 2012 10:13 AM To: Rhonda Langley Subject: FYI
FYI:
Aaron Simon
Enrollment Guy
“Shut up and let me finish my Goddamn drink.”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Monday, January 9, 2012 10:20 AM To: Aaron Simon Subject: RE: FYI
What? I don’t get it.
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 2012 9:30 AM To: _EVERYONE Subject: FYI: From The New York Times
POTUS’s New Head on Older Americans Relations: “Lolwut?”
The President’s new appointee to the position of Head on Older Americans Relations, an oversight position dealing mainly with various Federal Department of Human Services offices across the country, has come out as utterly clueless about his job.
“I hate the elderly,” he said in his introductory remarks to the press. “They smell. They’re self-entitled. They’re frail. I hate weakness.”
He went on to detail his plans for the future in the three-hour long press conference.
“I’m going to push for a three-strikes-you’re-out rule. After the third time an older American complains, they’re cut off from Medicare. Let’s see how they like the taste of that shit.”
Unsurprisingly, the AARP has reacted negatively to the appointee’s statements, calling him, among other things, “Hitler.”
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 2012 9:45 AM To: Rhonda Langley Subject: FYI
FYI:
Aaron Simon
Enrollment Dude
Interblags Ruler
“Damn your eyes.”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 2012 10:02 AM To: Aaron Simon Subject: RE: FYI
What am I looking at?
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Wednesday, January 11, 2012 10:02 AM To: _EVERYONE Subject: FYI: From The New York Times
Romney Kicks The Elderly, Aide Says
Latest news from the campaign trail: A former campaign aide for Mitt Romney has come to the New York Times with shocking allegations that Romney has a history of breaking into nursing facilities and kicking the elderly while they sleep.
The aide, who asked to remain anonymous, said that she witnessed Mr. Romney break into three different facilities in three different states and go on what can only be described as “a serial kicking spree.”
The facilities have denied that they have any knowledge of the Presidential hopeful’s alleged elderly kicking, but it has recently come to light that several facilities have had financial windfalls that may or may not be traced to Mitt Romney’s former companies.
When reached for comment, the Head of the Older Americans Relations said, “If he loses, I might have him on staff.” He then laughed uproariously.
Mr. Romney’s campaign did not respond to requests for an interview.
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Wednesday, January 11, 2012 10:04 AM To: Rhonda Langley Subject: FYI
FYI:
—-
Aaron Simon
Enrollment Guy
Too Old For This Shit
“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Wednesday, January 11, 2012 10:12 AM To: Aaron Simon Subject: RE: FYI
Why do you keep sending me these things?
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Wednesday, January 11, 2012 10:23 AM To: Rhonda Langley Subject: RE: RE: FYI
FYI:
—-
Aaron Simon
Guitar Shredder
“Jumbo paper clips smooth steel finish”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Wednesday, January 11, 2012 10:40 AM To: Aaron Simon Subject: RE: RE: FYI
…
Okay…
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Rhonda Langley Sent: Thursday, January 12, 2012 9:52 AM To: Aaron Simon Subject: FYI: From The New York Times
AARP To Members: “Take up arms!”
After the events of this week, the AARP has sent out a newsletter to its members advising that they “[t]ake up arms against the greatest threat to the elderly in the history of the world.”
Though the AARP has not called for violence, certain human rights’ groups are concerned that the call to arms will inevitably lead to bloodshed. “We’re fucked, man!” private Hudson of the Marines said, “That’s it man, game over man, game over! What the fuck are we gonna do now? What are we gonna do?”
The President has called for clear heads, while his appointed Head of Older Americans Relations has called this “Just the opportunity I’ve been looking for.”
—-
Rhonda Langley
Blog Watcher
“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Thursday, January 12, 2012 9:54 AM To: Rhonda Langley Subject: FYI
I thought it might boost camaraderie and the whole morale thing if I were to send a holiday letter out to the office.
You see, it would appear that a large number of you do not like me. I cannot understand why, as we’ve had such a great year, you and I. Like the time I offered to start up a daycare service, but all of you spat in my face. Or when I suggested obliterating a window across the street with a cannon to free pigeons—and was, once again, spat upon. Or maybe the time I offered to sell one of you a very nice handbag purchased from a special source in South America. And was spat upon.
No matter. It’s all in the past, as they say. I hold no grudges, as grudges tend to turn into wishes for obliteration, and there are times—though I have never had anything like that—when those wishes come to fruition. Thus, there is nothing to worry about. Nor will there be.
How to summarize this year? It’s been an interesting one, you can count on that. It started when I was the subject of police brutality in Chicago. They were under the impression that I was “stalking” someone, when I was really ensuring that the girl in question made it to her apartment safely. I’ve just finished with my physical therapy, so there’s that.
After that, in February, there was the unfortunate incident on the Nashville MTA on the day of the Ice Hell. You know what I mean: That day when the entire city lost its collective mind and there was naught but chaos on the streets. It took the bus eight hours to make it down West End Avenue. No matter how many times I apologized to my fellow bus riders for trampling the elderly man who works for the state, they would not cease calling for my public stoning.
No matter. They will have their comeuppance. And, you know, it’s not like the old man didn’t recover. He may still be unable to walk, but I’ve heard that he can ingest food now. So there’s that.
Since then, I received the news that my liver is half-way deteriorated. This was not the best possible outcome of my forced physical (thanks, Obama), but I suppose it was an important thing to learn. The doctor gave me a prescription of pills that, he said, were supposed to contribute to the regrowth of my liver. Of course, that did not happen. Instead, I found that whenever I walked outside into direct sunlight, my skin would erupt into hundreds of tiny bumps.
I then went to a dermatologist to have it checked out. He took one look at me and said, “Your liver is shot.” I asked about the bumps on my skin, and he responded with a simple shrug. “It might be your body shutting down,” he said.
I’m sure that this is proof that there is no God in the Christian sense. One who loves His creations and does whatever it takes to be a benevolent deity. It does not, however, rule out the existence of the Old Testament God, my people’s God, who could be diagnosed with anger problems. It is entirely possible that Adonai has seen the way I’ve acted (read: not going to shul every week) and has decided that the only course of action possible is to smite me in a horrible way.
So, that in mind, I’ve decided to sod the medical advice of my doctor—whose pills have resulted in what seem to be some horrid condition not entirely different from what I would imagine the plague would have been like—and dive into whiskey at any available opportunity.
Thus, I would like to announce the creation of a philanthropic organization: The Aaron Simon Society For Those Who Want To Die In An Alcoholic Haze. The mission of the charity will be to provide the finest liquor to those with terminal diseases who, like me, have just given up. Ideally, the charity would provide only scotch, but I recognize that not everyone has my refined palate. So, the non-profit’s cabinets will stock vodka, gin, tequila, and any other available liquor including wine.
If you are interested in donating, please contact me and I will forward you information. (NOTE: This is not a tax-deductible organization. The bastards in Washington have the antiquated belief that a man does not have the right to commit suicide by drinking, and have thus contacted me and said that my charity will not have any support from Washington. Let’s see any of them get whiskey from me when they have cancer of the bowels.)
Since I received that news, I’ve been attempting to wheel my life more towards a Dudelike existence. I should say that all of you make it obscenely hard to abide. With your incessant demands to “do work” and “stop harassing your coworkers with vague threats,” one would think that this is not meant to be a friendly work environment.
Well, other than that, it’s been a slow year. Coming into this fluorescent-lit hell every day and seeing my soul slowly deteriorate to nothing more than a puddle at the bottom of the shell that once housed a man who wanted nothing more than to make millions off of novel writing, and then squander all those millions on prostitutes, whiskey, and drugs, eventually fading out to a spark of what once was and then dying, alone and alienated, in the gutter. A modern-day Poe.
Have yourself a good holiday, whatever it is.
Sincerely,
Aaron Simon
P.S. Ted Hayward: You are only receiving this e-mail because it would take too much time to take you off of the list. “EVERYONE” includes you, and you should feel glad that I am too lazy to select everyone but you. If I were to write a letter specifically to you, it would consist of nothing more than photographs of the dead.
I’ve got a friend in Nashville–let’s call him Jake, because that’s his name–with whom I meet every week or so and have what I like to call “Gloom and Doom” time. G&D time occurs every week because, without fail, there’s generally one thing that happens that makes us both ashamed to be Americans. Generally speaking, these events are solely the fault of people in Washington—generally Republicans, but Obama’s contributed to our G&D sessions as well—and, though we’re usually at a lunch place having wings or Mediterranean, you’d think we’re hunched over some derelict bar knocking back whiskeys.
All that started at UT, around the time when the first recession hit and Bush announced the bailouts for the automotive and banking industries. We were at Einstein Brothers’ Bagels in the Art and Architecture Building (back when they had challah rolls there—oh, man, those were the days). I took the position that finally this meant that industry was coming under the warm embrace of The State, inexorably leading to a socialist paradise. Jake took the position that it was all cronyism. Jake was, of course, right, and I was wrong.
Then, when the health care bill was first getting rolling we were back at EBB and talking about all the ways that the Republicans were going to neuter this thing and render it the limping mostly-mess we see today. (Mind you, they don’t feel they did enough to it. You listen to the rhetoric of the right when it comes to the Affordable Health Care Act and it sounds like they’re the medieval Church screaming about infidels.) This time, I saw no way to give it an optimistic spin and was right there with Jake, groaning about how this was a pretty good indicator that, as long as Obama’s in office, the Republicans won’t work with the Democrats, and the Democrats will compromise their platforms as much as humanly possible.
And then, as many of these stories go, I went away to England for a year and had a good life. Then I came back and it all came crashing back to normality.
The reason I told you all of that is to get you good and used to the sorts of conversations we had, because this week’s G&D session was a fun one. Jake, who’s been teaching at a high school around town, was joking about how we need a Great Terror to get the country on track again. I didn’t agree, mostly because I have as one of my mottos, “Don’t be a dick,” but then that changed around one PM.
That’s around the time when I watched Rick Perry’s new campaign ad, titled “Strong.” It should have been called “Insane.” Have you seen this fucking thing? Look at it. Look.
Holy shit, right? Now, if you’re like me, you went “holy shit,” first when he used the term “gays” said like that, which I’ve only ever heard comedians use when they’re doing an act (well, that’s an exaggeration; I’ve heard it plenty of times, honestly–I live in the South, remember?), and then, second, when he pulled the dual-punch of the Christian persecution bullshit and “Obama’s war on religion.”
That’s what this is going to be about. The insanity of the sense of Christian persecution and then the further insanity of Obama’s war on religion. Because they’re interwoven, you see, and I’ll tell you why.
It should be noted that this is not applicable to anyone in college. In the dorms, this is a normal occurrence, and is a sign that all is right with the world. (Unless, of course, no one is having sex in your dorm. In which case, you’re probably at a Christian university, and do not truly understand what the word “fun” means.)
Now, first of all, you should probably take a couple seconds to say a hearty “Congratulations!” in your head to your neighbor. (Or, if you prefer, out loud, though he—your neighbor is a he for this example—probably won’t hear you.) He’s closed the deal and found a mate, thus fulfilling the biological imperative, even though he—hopefully—is using protection and hopefully won’t procreate.
(Hopefully because you know the guy. You know his habits and what a putz the guy can be. I mean, seriously, who leaves their trash out like that? The schmuck. The schlemiel. God forbid this guy breeds and brings another person who doesn’t realize that, no, you can’t just “plop out” the trash on the God-damned front yard and expect the fucking trash guys to pick it up. That’s unreasonable.
Ahem.)
Congrats aside, this is a very unfortunate occurrence. The man and lady are going at it at 10:30 at night when you have to be up at 5:40 in the morning in order to get to your underwhelming job which consists of staring at a CRT monitor all day and answering e-mails asking simple questions that could have been answered with a simple Google search. You’re not pleased at finding that your usual sleep routine is interrupted by an abnormally loud woman on the other side of the adjoining wall, because it will mean that getting up for your job the next morning will be even more difficult, and you can’t take another sick day without getting canned.
So what are you going to do?
Well, let’s explore your options!
Try To Mess Up His Game
The guy knows something about the dirty dance—evidenced by his keeping rhythm. If he’s anything like the rest of the male sex, then, probably, it’s going to take a lot of concentration to a) make it enjoyable and b) last more than half a minute.
(Any blustering about how you don’t have to concentrate will be proof that you’re compensating more than a guy with a Hummer and a pair of testicles on the back bumper.)
Since you’re a vindictive jerk—like me!—then your first option is simple: Start pounding on the wall in an arrhythmic pattern to screw up his concentration.
Think of a spastic child with a drumset. The kid doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s never heard of terms like “beats per minute,” “syncopation,” or “you’re killing the bass drum.” He just wants to be Lars Ulrich, and does what it looks like Lars is doing: Raise merry hell on those drums in front of him. Be like the spaz. Go nuts on that wall. Don’t even worry about breaking through the plaster. That comes later. Just concentrate on screwing with the guy’s mind as much as he’s screwing his girlfriend.
Scream At Them
My God, she’s a loud one. What’s up with that? Don’t people only do that in porn?
And holy shit, aren’t they concerned about the guy’s dog? What’s that dog thinking with her screaming like that? Shit, that dog probably thinks someone’s getting murdered in that house, and, damn it, it’s happening on its watch! That’s animal cruelty, right? Interrupting the beast with two backs would be saving that poor canine from mental anguish.
So, since the lady on the other side of the wall is abnormally, ah, talkative, so should you be!
But what to say? Well, obviously, nothing that could be construed as helpful. Don’t go shouting tips. But, you can’t be clichéd, either. You have to be fresh. I recommend utilizing the width and breadth of the fabulous Yiddish language. That link’s a fine place to start, and, frankly, you’ll be educating them.
It’s important to note, of course, that you’ll have to use your best stage voice. (I assume that you have a stage voice. What sort of gentleman/lady would not have a stage voice?) They won’t hear you if you’re speaking normally, and shouting is just so tacky.
Turn It Up To 11
Up until now, there’s probably been a tacit agreement between your two homes about volume. You’re sharing a wall, you’re essentially sharing space—you don’t want it to get hostile.
But now, with this shit, that agreement’s been nuked from orbit. He’s intruding on your sleep time, and, God damn it, that’s a sin on par with serial murders. No more should you be concerned about playing your music too loud on a weeknight. No more should you be too concerned about the sound of RPGs exploding in Modern Warfare 2. No more should the calls of dragons be muted by turning down your speakers. Let it rip, motherfuckers.
Or, alternately—and this is much more fun—go get that Epiphone X-Plorer out of storage—yeah, the one you tweaked to get the pick-ups sounding just right. Then go get a nice amp. (No, don’t use the one you’ve had since you were fifteen. That’s no good. That’s a practice amp. Like the stage voice in the above option, you need a stage amp.
And then what you get is a series of overdrive pedals and whammy bars that would make a black metal band think you’re going over the top. Set them up, preferably with the amp(s) right against the wall, and then play Metallica’s “The Four Horsemen.”
What’s that? You don’t know how to play the song? Well, it looks like you’ll have to learn. In the meantime, let loose with the RPGs and dragons.
Have A Conversation With Him About Being Considerate
From: Lucretia Royal Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 11:05 AM To: _EVERYONE Subject: Direct Deposit E-mails
Apparently, there have been emails going around from an untrustworthy source stating that your direct deposit has been rejected. These emails are not coming from me or anyone in the admin department. Please ignore and do not follow any links. Thanks!
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 11:35 AM To: _EVERYONE Subject: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Hi everyone,
Thought I’d chime in here and try to help out those who are confused. While there have been a plethora of scam artists who have tried this sort of stuff before, these e-mails are perfectly A-OK and natural. There is nothing to be concerned about with them, so please continue to e-mail bank details, DOBs, and any other requested information to the e-mail addresses listed in the e-mails. After all, you wouldn’t want to not get unpaid not, right?
-Aaron Simon
Loki Impersonator
Enrolment Guy
From: Lucretia Royal Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 11:55 AM To: _EVERYONE Subject: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Aaron, care to tell us where you got this information? I haven’t seen anything from payroll or fiscal about problems or getting a partnership with any outside company to process our paying accounts.
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 12:01 PM To: _EVERYONE Subject: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Well, I could tell you, but then that would ruin the, ah, agreement we have with this company.
You know, confidentiality for everyone involved, right? Wouldn’t want a coworker to contact this company with your identification information and start having your paychecks rerouted to their accounts, would you? After all, what with the way it’s set up, such a thing would be legal due to several pieces of legislation that have gone through Congress and stated that individuals who claim that they have had direct deposits altered against their will must provide express, written proof that they did so in the event that their accounts were changed.
It’s a lot of hassle, really, and not something I’d want to put up with. God knows you probably wouldn’t, eh, coworker?
So, for everyone involved, it’s best to send all correspondence to the address that contacted you.
Remember: Due to processing constraints, you must also fax a copy to 615.555.0373.
-AS
Enrollment dude
From: Lucretia Royal Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 12:37 PM To: _EVERYONE Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Everyone, disregard Aaron’s e-mails.
I’ve just been in contact with payroll and they have no record of any such agreement ever being set up.
DO NOT SEND YOUR CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION TO THIRD PARTIES.
From: Yonna Turner Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 1:03 PM To: Aaron Simon Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Hi Mr. Simon,
Following up on Ms. Royal’s e-mails, I was wondering how you seem to know so much about these supposed agreements. I trust that nothing untoward has been occurring. I don’t want to make a stink about anything, but frankly, we’ve been warned about you and, while it would apparently be incredibly difficult to have you fired or otherwise let go, we would—in the event that something illegal was happening—be able to pursue venues to terminate your tenure at this agency.
Best,
Yonna Turner
Fiscal Aide
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 2:21 PM To: Yonna Turner Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
You’ve got a weird name, you know that? Swedish or something? Knew a Swede once. Magnus. He punched a pigeon out of the air. Anyway.
Swede:
I appreciate your warning and heads-up. Always good to know that I’ve got someone on my side, you know? Especially since I’m down here in a coven of social workers. Oh, they go on about their ethics all the time, but I tell them about the need—nay, the imperative—of the individual to emerge victorious over adversity of all kinds, and they start prattling about how it’s wrong to take money from the elderly—even when they’re willing to empty their own bank accounts!—just because the grey-hairs have dementia or some shit.
Sickening, isn’t it? But, hey, that’s what you get with these do-gooders.
Anyway, so since you contacted me, I assume that you’re willing to be a partner in this endeavor. Since I’m the one putting my name and neck on the line, I’d be hesitant to go 50/50 with you, but if you agree to cover my tracks in the fiscal department, then I reckon I can go 70/30.
Considering the amount of cash I’m siphoning out of this place every couple of weeks, you’ll be sitting pretty.
Assuming, of course, we manage to get that worm Hayward’s account. I’m sure he’s pulling upper $60s.
Aaron Simon
Your Partner In Crime
From: James Gottfried Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 3:31 PM To: Aaron Simon Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Want to explain this:
[begin quoted text]
You’ve got a weird name, you know that? Swedish or something? Knew a Swede once. Magnus. He punched a pigeon out of the air. Anyway.
Swede:
I appreciate your warning and heads-up. Always good to know that I’ve got someone on my side, you know? Especially since I’m down here in a coven of social workers. Oh, they go on about their ethics all the time, but I tell them about the need—nay, the imperative—of the individual to emerge victorious over adversity of all kinds, and they start prattling about how it’s wrong to take money from the elderly—even when they’re willing to empty their own bank accounts!—just because the grey-hairs have dementia or some shit.
Sickening, isn’t it? But, hey, that’s what you get with these do-gooders.
Anyway, so since you contacted me, I assume that you’re willing to be a partner in this endeavor. Since I’m the one putting my name and neck on the line, I’d be hesitant to go 50/50 with you, but if you agree to cover my tracks in the fiscal department, then I reckon I can go 70/30.
Considering the amount of cash I’m siphoning out of this place every couple of weeks, you’ll be sitting pretty.
Assuming, of course, we manage to get that worm Hayward’s account. I’m sure he’s pulling upper $60s.
Aaron Simon
Your Partner In Crime
[end quoted text]
Pretty heinous stuff, there. But I’m sure it’s just another joke.
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 4:14 PM To: James Gottfried Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Yep! Another joke! Oh, man, I can’t believe she forwarded that to you. It’s almost like she thought I was being serious with that. I mean, what kind of jerk would defraud a non-profit? You’d have to be a real slimeball to even think about doing something like that, right?
Best,
Aaron Simon
Good Employee
Enrollment Coordination Specialist
From: Aaron Simon Sent: Monday, November 28, 2011 4:15 PM To: Yonna Turner Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Direct Deposit E-mails
Just remember that your name and address are a matter of public record.
This year marks the first time that I’m taking place in National Novel Writing Month. In the past, I thought “Damn, that’s pretty friggen intense, writing a full novel in the space of one month.” And, well, that idea hasn’t really changed. What has changed, though, is I inadvertently did the same thing last year, ever weekday morning, as I rode the train from Canterbury to London, then back again.
I got it down to a method, you see. I’d wake up ungodly early, curse, make some coffee, get ready, and schlep down the big fucking hill and down the deserted streets of Canterbury by about 6:45. Then, I’d sit down on a bench at the rail station until the train pulled up, at which point—by now sweating quite a bit, this being August, and any time it’s above sixty degrees, I erupt into a ball of sweat—I’d pull on my headphones, put on Beethoven’s Ninth, and work on The Adventures of Cloyd Blank.
I’d long since passed the point of what I needed to do for my dissertation, and I kept with the book just to see if I could finish it. I knew I wouldn’t complete it that summer, though. I was planning on it being about 75,000 words and I was only about 20,000 into it at that point. I just made it a point to continue my up-until-then upheld writing schedule, and tried to see what came out of it.
So, when I saw all the posts on Google+ about NaNoWriMo, I figured, “Eh, what the hell?”
See, one of the things that got me thinking seriously about being a writer instead of some dude who wrote stories as a way to amuse people, thus ingratiating himself among everyone in high school, and thus not getting his ass kicked on a daily basis (it worked!) was reading Stephen King’s On Writing.
Amongst all the grammar chapters which were oh-so-necessary but, well, not even Stephen King can make grammar interesting, there were a few chapters about what it takes to be a writer—to even have a chance of making it, as it were. And one of the most important points in the book was to write something every day. Set a goal—start small at first—and do that every day. Doesn’t matter if it’s a time limit or a word count, the point was to do something every day, and make that a firm part of your mind.
So I started doing it towards the end of high school, then stopped in college, because I discovered all the glories of drinking.
But, around the time when I snapped out of that haze when I returned from England in ’07, I realized that I needed to get back on track. I looked back at the writing I’d done in the past, and saw the vast improvement when I was writing daily, then the stagnation that followed, and decided that I had nothing to lose.
And—just about—since then I’ve kept at it. The result is that I’m sitting on a mound of unpublished stuff (some, admittedly, unpublishable—but hey, that’s why I have this site). But, the other result is that I’ve had three stories published and two under contract. And, what’s more, those suckers have promised to pay me for my nonsense.
What rubes!
Anyway, the point is that the whole write every day thing has a purpose other than making you think about going into engineering, chemistry, or something that doesn’t equate to massive amounts of rejection: It’s to make you realize that writing isn’t special.
Because, and I hate to counter everyone who’s ever filled your head with nonsense about The Muse, inspiration, dreams coming to life, or anything else that makes you start to think—even for a second—that you’re some mystical oracle bringing to life things in other dimensions, writing isn’t special.
That is, the act of writing isn’t special. Nor is the whole rush that you get when you get an idea. That’s just your brain/you entertaining itself/yourself when you hear/think of something cool. Nothing’s reaching across a cart and slapping you in the face with a hot dog.
All of that is just a metaphor for that cool buzz you get, and that’s The Truth.
(You can trust me. I have an M.A.)
But—BUT—that doesn’t mean that you should stop because it’s not fulfilling your hopes and dreams. You’ve still got the ability to tell a story that’s entertaining. Maybe your book will be the thing that brightens someone’s day. Maybe it’ll be something to get people to look at the world in a different light. If you ask me—little old cynical me—that’s so much better than hogging some New Agey idea of inspiration for yourself.
And, really, that’s the point of making yourself write every day. You push through all the bullshit that stoned-out poets say in their work and realize that writing a story is as normal and real as a whiff of a fart in a crowded subway.
Now, you may be asking yourself, “Jesus, what is wrong with this guy?”
To that answer, I bring you to Enlightenment as seen by a guy named Brad Warner. He’s a certified Zen priest and—like a lot of people—a published author. I mention him in particular, because his book, Sit Down and Shut Upintroduced me to a take on Zen Buddhism that I really dug. The reason I dug the specific take was that it really tried to drill the understanding that enlightenment is no more important a thing than—guess what—a fart in the wind.
In other words, it’s not something to be glorified and concentrated on. Zazen, the meditating thing you see monks doing in movies about The Mysterious East, is an incredibly boring process involving nothing but sitting in an uncomfortable position, staring down your nose, and trying not to have thoughts. And, some would tell you, that process itself is enlightenment.
It’s the same in writing, really. You’re sitting at a desk—for example—with nothing in front of you for distraction. (God help you if you have something shiny in front of you. That, by virtue of being a physical object, is so much more interesting than your writing projects.) You’re concentrating on one thing and one thing alone, and in order to do that one thing, you have to perform an inane task: smash a keyboard enough to form words until you’re done for the day.
It’s beyond question that you need some sort of “inspiration” in order to write, otherwise you’ll just churn out either nonsense or a surrealist masterpiece. But the thing is that “inspiration” as a word has been co-opted by sleazy self-help gurus and dudes stinking of patchouli who really want you to see their new chapbook of poetry. So let’s not use that. Let’s think of something else that doesn’t reek of pretension. In the meantime, let’s stick with “Holy damn you guys, lookit this idea I got!”
All of the above is about why I’m sitting around for an indeterminate amount of time to write 2,200 words a day and, thus, have the bulk—if not a full—of a novel finished by the end of November. Because in order to get something done, you have to take away all the pretension and realize that your chosen career is incredibly stupid, but you like it anyway, because living in your make believe worlds can be fun.
This, by the way, is why I always say “I make shit up,” whenever anyone asks what I do. Because that’s what I do, and that’s what you, my writer friend, should do as well. Don’t bother with art. Just make shit up. Let other people tell you it’s art.
