Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 9:46 AM

To: _EVERYONE

Subject: Missed a phone call???!!(!)

Hi Guys,

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.

Best,

Aaron Simon

Enrollment Guy

From: Darlene-Lynn Brown

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 10:02 AM

To: Aaron Simon

Subject: RE: RE: Missed a phone call???!!(!)

Who do you think you are??? I am a VERY busy worker and employee of this organization and you need to mind your own friggen business or I will get ted hayword ion you

Darlene-Lynn Brown

Employed Vagabond

From: Aaron Simon

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 10:04 AM

To: Darlene-Lynn Brown

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Missed a phone call???!!(!)

I don’t think you understand the severity of this situation. If this is a female, well, dog, for example, then we, as humans, have the imperative to outlaw dog ownership as it would be tantamount to slavery. If it is a chimpanzee that called you, then we may presume that the connection between humans and chimps is even closer than we had thought. You owe this to humanity to respond, Darlene.

Also, I beg to differ on your “VERY busy worker” claim. I have been told by little birds that you spend most of your time on eBay searching for baby clothes.

Tell me, Darlene, why are you searching for baby clothes when both of your children have outgrown that stage? Planning something, are we? It would be a shame if the TBI were to get wind of a person who kidnaps babies. Well, it would be a shame for that person. I think that I’d just be doing my civic duty by putting away such a dangerous person.

Remember, Darlene. My little birds see all.

Aaron Simon

The Spider

Enrollment Guy

From: Darlene-Lynn Brown

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 10:36 AM

To: Aaron Simon

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Missed a phone call???!!(!)

U r sick. Where are you I just went by ur desk to tell you off and u wernt there u sick jerk. IT WAS A PERSON DO I NEED TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU IDIOT!!!!!

STOP WATCHING ME IT IS NONE OF UR BUSNESS WHAT I DO IONNLINE!

Darlene-Lynn Brown

Employed Vagabond

From: Aaron Simon

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 10:36 AM

To: Darlene-Lynn Brown

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Missed a phone call???!!(!)

Darlene:

I am saddened to hear that you have just now decided to tell us that the entity who called you was not a chimpanzee. Surely, science is hurting today. …

Of course, there is always the possibility that you are lying. But you wouldn’t do that, would you, Darlene? Especially when little Darryl is struggling so much in his Physical Sciences class at Dickson County Middle School. It would be such a shame to get on the wrong side of an organization as important and, well, ruthless as White Mesa Biotic Engineering.

As for your concerns about my presence in the office: I can assure you that I am in the building. The desk is but a decoy. I have many enemies in this organization, the detestable lackey Ted Hayward among them, and it would not do to have them know where I actually do my job. Nor would it do for you to know where I do my job.

As to your concern that I need to watch you to know what you’re doing, it’s baseless. I am not watching you. I don’t watch anyone. I am not some sad voyeur who spends their life in the darkness, peeking through blinds. That’s my brother. I have a deep network of informants, whom I call my “little birds.” They are the ones watching you.

Be careful.

Best,

Aaron Simon

The Spider

Enrollment Guy

P.S. You keep getting error messages on your computer because you continuously visit PicsOfCuteCatsOMG.com. Those error messages are viruses.

From: Ted Hayward

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 12:02 PM

To: Aaron Simon

Subject: Workspace

Dear Mr. Simon,

I kindly remind you of the policy manual, which states that if an employee is not working from home, then they are to be at their assigned workspace during working hours. Obviously, there is leeway here, but we do not allow employees to have more than one workstation.

Please return to your desk on the second floor.

Best,

Ted Hayward

Director, Human Resources

From: Aaron Simon

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 12:04 PM

To: Ted Hayward

Subject: RE: Workspace

Dear Ted,

I kindly remind you of the policy manual, which states that no illegal activity is to be conducted during work hours on company property. This includes downloading torrents of, oh my, German interracial gay pornography.

Ted, I didn’t know you swung that way. What will your wife and sons think?

Best,

Aaron Simon

The Spider

Enrollment Guy

P.S. I also kindly remind you to take a flying fuck at the moon.

From: Ted Hayward

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 1:13 PM

To: _EVERYONE

Subject: Change in policy

Dear all,

I thought I’d take the time to let you know that there will be a change in the policy manual soon. You may, with sufficient reason, have an alternate workspace in the building.

Best,

Ted Hayward

Director, Human Resources

From: Aaron Simon

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 1:22 PM

To: Darlene-Lynn Brown

Subject: RE: Workspace

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From: Aaron Simon

Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 12:04 PM

To: Ted Hayward

Subject: RE: Workspace

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.

Anyway! I told the men in the steel mill all of that but all they said was “Fuck you, kid,” and tried to ignore me but they couldn’t because I was working there right alongside them. At least I was until the day that my hand got stuck in a machine and the machine chopped off all of my fingers. That was bad. And I couldn’t do anything with my hand because they gave me a metal hand but the fingers didn’t move because it wasn’t hooked up to my brain so all it could do was just sit there. Children in the street called me The Claw and it wasn’t funny at first, but eventually I thought it was and until the time I broke several car windows on accident and had to go into police costidity it was fun. After that, the police brought me to a hospital for the deranged who then gave me a specialer claw that lets me move the fingers so I can actually grab things and eat food. I like hamburgers even though they remind me of the eel-cat pies that used to be all the rage in the urchin homes in London but weren’t good but we ate them anyway because they were so cheap and Phillip the overseer often didn’t feed us on account of him being drunken all of the time.

Anyway! I was walking through the library today and then I saw one of the computingers that was on the Google site and the Google site had a picture of a bunch of urchins and I said to the person in the chair, “That’s me!” but it wasn’t me, because it was a picture on a computinger screen. The person in the chair puked up something green and then ran to the bathroom but I didn’t worry because the man was a vagrant and I’d seen him puke up worse things not to mention the vagrants in London when I was even younger than I Am Now often had red boiling sores on them and that was something to worry about.

One of the people who work at the library came over with a mask on her face and she cleaned up the green vomit and I asked what that picture was about because I’d seen the Google site before and it hadn’t always looked like that. The woman who looked like she was about to puke up her breakfast told me that it was for Charles’s Dickens’s birthday and I almost peed myself in enjoyment on account of I knew Charles Dickens! That’s right. Tim Timiny Cheerio Idiot hisself knew the great and Intible Boz even before there was a movie made of his books.

The writer Charles Dickens wrote a book about urchins and I think it was good even though I never read it on account of the many head injuries I have had over the span of my life make it hard to read if I spend more than five minutes staring at a page with writing on it and I know how long the books can be! Even though people told him that he would be stabbed several times if he came to our part of London Town he did so anyway just to talk to urchins and so we talked back to him and sometimes we stole from him even though he never realized it. We stopped stealing from him though because he bought us eel-cat pies sometimes and we felt bad stealing from him because that might mean that it would make it harder for him to buy us eel-cat pies.

He came to urchin town one day after the Gypsy woman had put a curse on me and after my leg had almost been torn off by a dog that belonged to Phillip but was just about the most savage creature that God ever created. And so the writer Charles Dickens saw my leg with the gaping wound and said, “By Jove, child we must get you to a hospital!” I tried to tell him not to worry it would just seal back up eventually and then Timothy Timony of the Sewer would be right as rain but he would not listen and brought me to a hospital.

So I was in the care of doctors and nurses who kept repeating “You should be dead you should be dead” and I just laughed because the Gypsy woman’s curse was helping me but at the same time it wasn’t because I was in excruciating pain and I thought that contradiction was amusing. Anyway! As I was being healed by the doctors the writer Charles Dickens talked to me and asked me about my life and all the things I have done. I told him that I stole in order so that I could eat food and that Phillip wouldn’t beat the piss outta me and the writer Charles Dickens said that it was bad and that I should tell him my story and if I did that he would pay me money to use me in a book of his.

And I thought Oh Boy this is Timothy Timiniy’s time to shine and that I would be living in a country mansion in Kent soon enough and out of London Town and so I told him everything that had happened to me straight from the time I was born underneath Blackfriar’s Bridge until the day the writer Charles Dickens brought me to the hospital because he thought my leg was going to kill me. And the writer Charles Dickens spent the whole time nodding and making notes in a book and telling me “Go on, lad” and asking “And then what happened?” I heard that he was a newspaper man and you could tell because of the questions he asked like “Why didn’t you seek help when the dog bit you?” And I laughed and said that police constablurals usually just ignored me and the writer Charles Dickens sighed and shook his head.

And so it went like that for a few weeks until all of the gang reen was out of my system and the doctors shook their heads and said, “I cannot imagine why we did not have to amputate.” And I laughed again because I was cursed, that was why. But the doctors said I was crazy and the writer Charles Dickens just said, “No, the boy is a born writer,” and I laughed because I couldn’t write.

But that didn’t stop the writer Charles Dickens because he said to me that he would send me a sum of money every month for giving him so much material that he could use in a book and so I said that I just talked but if he wanted to I could use the money. And so we parted ways and the writer Charles Dickens surely did send me money. But Phillip the overseer saw that I was getting money and took it from me every time it came in and used it to buy alcohol and continue to get drunk until the day his liver popped and he died screaming terribly and we urchins were finally free.

I went to Liverpool the next day and from there went to America where I lived in New York City’s amazing sewer system for decades but all the time I thought about the writer Charles Dickens and his odd idea to listen to me speak.

Happy birthday, sir!

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.

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.

Method 1: The Chameleon

This method is best used in the presence of Overt Racists. You probably should have realized something was terribly wrong when your friends started dressing like they were going to a white pride rally, but no matter. Here you are. The trick is to deal with them until you can extract yourself from the premises and go get a nice, calming, blackout.

You could start throwing punches, but these people are used to fighting. Just look at their eyes. Each one has the ocular equivalent to bright red, threatening buttons that say “Certain Death Comes From Pushing This Button.” You’re no match for one of them, let alone a whole group of them.

So, what do you do? Blend in. Dig deep within your soul and come out with the most heinous, hateful words and phrases you can think of. They’ll accept you as one of their own and, eventually, let you leave. This is opposed to the alternative, where if they knew what you really were, you’d wind up in the hospital.

It won’t feel right, but your imperative as a human being is to live, and unless you’re in a group of right-thinking individuals who can match these Overt Racists, then you won’t be doing much of that by stepping up to them.

Afterwards, find a member of whatever group you were disparaging and apologize profusely. They won’t know what you’re talking about, but you’ll feel much better afterwards.

Method 2: The Rhetor

Ah, the Casual Racist. Often, these people are surprisingly logical and are actually quite fine on their own. You may find that several of your good friends are Casual Racists, and you had no idea until now. If this is the case, don’t despair: You can explain your point of view and, hopefully, they’ll listen.

Now, this is actually much harder than the Chameleon—or the method that follows—because it requires you to use all those skills you developed in your English Lit classes and then let fester because you never found a job that requires critical thinking skills.

Establish common ground. You both have a sense of humor, you both know each other quite well, but you both come from different backgrounds. Use the first two to influence the latter, and then explain why what that person said is abhorrent. It will probably spark a debate[6] that will leave both of you more knowledgeable than you were before.

Or, if not, then at least you can leave without feeling like your skin is crawling every time you see the other person.

Method 3: Nuke It From Orbit

This method, it shouldn’t surprise you, is for use with the Casual, Stupid Racist. There is no hope for the CSR, as their brain is silly putty. They hear something funny and are compelled to repeat it whenever they’re reminded. “Context” is a foreign concept to them, on par with the machinations of the Large Hadron Collider.

As there is no hope for them, you need to get out of the situation as soon as humanly possible. Whereas with the Overt Racist, your best bet is to play along before fleeing, to do so with this group would only mean that you’re in the club and will receive e-mails, facebook messages, and text messages with horrible, horrible things in them followed by “lol :p.”[7]

Your only option is to start swinging, or just leave. If you start swinging, you’ll probably win, as the CSR is too emaciated from spending 16 hours a day in front of a computer to win in a fight, but you’ll end up getting bad karma.

If you just leave, make sure that you do so with a big, “Fuck you, cocksuckers.” It doesn’t matter, because they’ll forget you said anything five minutes after you’ve left.

So with that in mind, I thought about it and realized that I have two pieces of advice for people:

1. Be as Dudelike as you can
2. If you’re playing Pyro, friggen airblast people when they’re on fire

He cares, deep down inside.

So I did what came naturally and decided to base things off of my family. Names omitted because, well, yeah.

1. “Never Trust Mormons”

This is one of those occasions when you hear a family member say something and your immediate impulse is to go online to any reputable DNA testing source and see if you’re related to that person.

2. “Not gonna die today!”

3. “I’d like to thank God, without whom none of this would be possible”

4. “It makes me so mad I could just say the f-word”

5. “Respond with ‘fuck you very much’ and then ‘welcome to the world of herpes’”

This followed getting turned down for a job abnormally quick after a second interview.

(Did you know that H.G. Hill sells cannolis? I’m very happy about that.)

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

FYI:

http://i.imgur.com/cyRPU.jpg

Aaron Simon

Enrollment Dude

“Saigon. Shit.”

From: Rhonda Langley
Sent: Thursday, January 12, 2012 10:00 AM
To: Aaron Simon
Subject: RE: FYI

Why do you keep doing this?!

—-

Rhonda Langley

Blog Watcher

“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”

From: Aaron Simon
Sent: Thursday, January 12, 2012 10:05 AM
To: Rhonda Langley
Subject: RE: RE: FYI

Watch this. It will all make sense.

Aaron Simon

Enrollment Coordination Bullshit

“You smell that? That’s the smell of bastards.”

From: Rhonda Langley
Sent: Thursday, January 12, 2012 8:39 PM
To: Aaron Simon
Subject: RE: RE: FYI

I don’t get it.

—-

Rhonda Langley

Blog Watcher

“May all your day be full of sparkles!!!”

To: _EVERYONE

Sent: Wednesday December 14, 2011 1:35PM

Subject: Holiday letter.

Hello.

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.

Funnily enough, this means "Fuck you" in England.

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.

First of all, Christianity in the U.S. is the same as Islam in the Middle East. (Except, of course, Israel, where my people thrive and make damn good hummus.) The only time when Christians have been persecuted on this continent is when the first settlers were arriving, and that was more because they were trying to take land from natives than religion.

I don’t think a sane person could see someone claiming that Christians are beleaguered and endangered in this country and not twitch—even a little bit. That goes double is someone’s a Protestant. I mean, Jesus, Kennedy was under huge scrutiny because he was a Catholic and people didn’t want the Pope running the country.

Even though we have a de facto separation of church and state—Congress shall pass no law and all that—we have the Bible oozing its way into public schools. Par example:

When I was in high school, my biology teacher started talking about evolution and he prefaced it by saying, “Now, I don’t want you to feel like you have to believe this. Because I don’t. I don’t think it’s right, and I think it contradicts the Word of God, but I have to teach it.” This, by the way, is about something that’s as close to as a fact as we can get. You want proof? Humans were totally lactose intolerant until cows were domesticated in Europe. This is why you have Asian populations that are lactose intolerant, but not Europeans, who exist on cheese and nothing else.

The Christian Right seems to believe that they’re under attack by science. They’re not. Science does not exist to obliterate religion from the face of the Earth. Science exists to actually explain the face of the Earth. If the discoveries that we make—say, quantum mechanics, which is why I can hit a key on this plastic board in front of me and, milliseconds later, pixels on a LED monitor change from white to black to form a letter—happen to contradict what the Bible says, well, okay.

The Bible clearly defined the way the universe worked as it was seen by a nomadic tribe, who eventually built a kingdom on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea in a region that was a proving ground of empires. Since the Greeks started having conversations in Athens, the sciences have been showing us how the world works instead of trying to explain it away as the work of a deity.

This is not a war on religion, this is the progress of the human mind. Religions evolve over time. If they don’t, then they become what’s termed “fundamentalism.” If you want to see what fundamentalism breeds, look at the Jews who killed a Prime Minister; look at the Christians who bomb mosques; look at the Muslims who flew planes into towers; look at [yammers on in that vein]. The point is, progress brings us to the realization that no man is an island, we’re all interconnected, and what affects one of us affects the rest of us. It’s the basic morality lesson taught in every religion, but the payoff is that you have to be good to everyone—yes, Perry, gays included—if you don’t want to live in a world full of hate.

Now, the idea that Christianity is under attack shows itself in this whole idea that you can’t openly celebrate Christmas without being lynched. Whenever you hear this, it’s usually followed by “Damn political correctness.” Another favorite buzzword, this, like the term “Obamacare,” is said with the disdain one would hear from a country pastor in the 50s talking about the Satan-inspired rock-and-roll.

But consider this: Political correctness stems from the idea that it’s not cool to alienate people because they’re not part of your in-group. So, when we liberals say “happy holidays!” we’re not trying to kill Jesus and Santa, we’re acknowledging that there are other holidays going on around the same time as Christmas, and people want to feel welcome.

Now, hear me out here. I’m not offended when a surely well-meaning Christian says, “Merry Christmas” to me. Chances are they think that Jews worship Jesus. (Because he was Jewish, right? So it would just be weird to not worship him as the Lord and Savior.) But that’s not to say that my left eye doesn’t twitch a little bit. I mean, think about it from the outside perspective. Going around and saying “Merry Christmas!” to everyone you meet in a region that’s as surprisingly international and multicultural as Nashville can make those people feel like their beliefs don’t matter as much as yours. Which, then, translates into a feeling that their voice doesn’t count as much as another person’s. (That might not be right, mind you, but emotions are a tricky thing.)

Now, you could try to get around doing that to another person by asking their religion, and appropriate holiday, but let’s take a look at a list of winter festivals:

• Bodhi Day – Buddhism; December 8
• Chinese New Year – anywhere from early January to mid-February
• Advent – Christianity; Four weeks prior to Christmas
• Christmas – Christianity; 25^th of December
• St. Stephen’s Day – Christianity; 26^th of December
• St. John’s Day – Christianity; 27^th of December
• Yule – Germanic; Winter festival (“Yuletide” ring a bell? Pagan!)
• Pancha Ganapati – Hinduism; five day festival for Lord Ganesha; 21^st – 25^th December
• Chanukah – Judaism; All over the place, but generally lands around mid- to late-December. (Starts the evening of the 20^th this year. [COUGH HINT COUGH]
• Tu Bishvat – Judaism; New Year of the Trees, January or February
• Yalda – Persian; 21^st December
• Saturnalia – Roman
• Sol Invicti – Roman; Day of the Invincible Sun, 25^th of December
• Kwanzaa

(“Aaron!” you may be saying. “You’re twisting the facts! The Romans don’t celebrate those holidays anymore, no more than anyone celebrates Yule!” True, but those are in that list to make you realize that Christmas is what it is because of those pagan holidays. [And many others.] And, hell, did you read the article on Saturnalia? Sounds like Carnivale! We should start that back up in the U.S.)

And there are probably more than that. Now, notice that a lot of them fall around the same time—late December. So, if you think about it from the perspective of not trampling on the fun of others, just saying “Happy Holidays!” is an easy way to say, “Hey, I don’t know what you believe—if anything—but have a good one, whatever it is.”

Personally, I like that a whole lot better than assuming that everyone around me is the same religion as I am. If I went around wishing everyone I met a happy Hanukkah, I’d get strange looks, and probably wary glances from the Jews—because it’s a reminder that we’re all getting shitty gifts, and the only way to get over that is drinking a lot of Manischewitz.

So, to finish this section: Your kids can celebrate Christmas. No one’s begrudging that. It’s your duty, though, to remember that there are other belief systems prevalent in this great country of ours, and your kids probably go to school with other kids of different backgrounds. It’s another way of teaching them the Golden Rule: Don’t be a dick.

But what about Obama’s war on religion? Well, fuck, I don’t even have the energy for this. Does Rick Perry have proof other than Obama doesn’t fill every speech with glorifying the Christ? I doubt it.

So, happy holidays everyone. May your mead flow and may you die honorably and revel in the warm fires of Valhalla!

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

Nah, screw that. No way that can be funny.

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.

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 Up introduced 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.

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