HEY CRM TEAM LEAD, I'VE CONFIGURED THAT KNOWLEDGE TRANSFER STRATEGY WORKFLOW FOR THE UPCOMING BOILER PLATE WEBINAR. BOO-YAH!

certain things have no place in certain habitats.

bull sharks have no place in petting zoos, jane's addiction has no place in music, and it would be unwise to unleash this walking, talking abomination anywhere in public.

so when i glanced over my shoulder at what two of my slovenly unathletic, mouth-breathing coworkers just did, i've ruled that something must forever be banished from the workplace, punishable by having all their batbelt-worn priceless necessities of life be immediately confiscated and destroyed. that, and maybe a thorough eye gouge, ironically administered by this.

(but that's just a clever photoshopped hoax, right? they don't actually make those, do they? there's no way a sane person would buy that kinda shit. holy fucking fuck. the next thing you're gonna tell me is that they invented a keyboard so that the beautifully sculpted, herculean tech support staff won't ever have to dangerously overexert themselves by frantically moving their hooves by extra fractions of an inch to type up trouble tickets. oh...umm, dear god.)

let me back up a little before i start making less sense than i already am. there are generally three distinct orders of species whose daily cohabitation in any sea of cubicles, laptops, and baseless arrogance lead to many an excited yet illogical violation of their own personal dignity:

a) people who take themselves too seriously (ie. overachieving incompetent crm team lead and his ilk),
b) people who don't give a shit (everyone else minus two people), and
c) people who don't give a shit whilst violently mocking the entire immediate populace (me and this one seriously jaded douchebag in software testing).

the oversimplified rule of thumb is that nobody more than one order apart from another can engage in effective communication together. ideally, you always want a-orders to hang out with other a-orders, b's with b's, and so on. this holds true, mainly due to that in part and parcel, a-orders love the smell and taste of their own excrement. but it's when their ass-pounding desire to share their feces with everyone takes over that makes for seriously dubious interaction. take for example a conversation typical to those i have every day:

crm team lead: did you get my value-add recommendations to the latest and greatest deck on the vendor core competancy metrics? the pivot dashboard? i don't think i have to remind you that this is a mission critical living document.
me: dude, huh?
crm team lead: and when you get done with that, let's assemble the tiger team for a configuration breakthrough session. or would you prefer a lunch n' learn?
me: i'll kill you, i swear.
crm team lead: what was that? i didn't hear you - i was listening to the sound of my own voice on a continuous loop in this hot bluetooth earpiece i got from the nextel outlet. and now i have to go, (reaches out) high-five, my brother!

clearly the lines of communication here are an afterthought - especially on that last part. crm team lead is making a dreadful attempt to connect with someone way out of his order. which puts me in an unenviable position. do i turn my back and roll out, leaving him there looking like a complete dingus? or do i oblige, and we both end up looking like complete dinguses? since the degrees of said mouth-breathery increase as you approach the alphabetical top of the list, you need to maintain your always fragile image as you upgrade toward c-order status. but poorly producing b-order employees certainly have their purpose.

which is why to help me educate my new mandate (and my original point) from a formal perspective, i've employed the services of a fictional but prominent b-order denizen of the cubicles to serve as my conduit to everyone else. her name is beth ann, a systems integration specialist.

at the time of this post, beth ann legally changed her name to 'angyl-magdylyne' as a result of her massive transformation through suffering a series of identity crises. look at her; she was constantly ridiculed through her formative years keeping her sub-par in every facet of life. c's on report cards. 3rd string soccer midfielder. boyfriends that steal from her.

how did she get this way? was it a lack of human interaction? was it that her focus was on getting that used '88 camaro instead of on her personal hygiene? was it her oblivious but encouraging mother, then in the midst of her third marriage? in any event, her burgeoning desire to become a fashion school student, thereby gaining the crass individuality that she would give her ovaries for, was ultimately quelled due to her lack of talent. naturally, she did what anyone would do in her shoes - learn powerpoint and settle into a role in office management for years on end, forgotten by the world, but not by a host of eating disorders. every office has a beth an--er, angyl. yeah, angyl. gotta love feminazis.

so everyone listen up as angyl-magdylyne says, 'thou shalt never high-five, chest bump, fist pound, or anything else popularized by our favorite jive-talking cycloptic waste of life in the office.' you're gonna look like idiots. it's that simple.

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear arcturus's sideshow symphonies...]

OPUS ONE: HOW TO MURDER YOUR WIFE

it should be painfully clear by now that i spend my free hours moonlighting as a sentinel of world culture. admittedly, my presence is oft uninvited, but i have taken upon myself to make the biggest of sacrifices to provide you with only the most biased and caustic commentary imaginable (wait, that doesn't even make any sense). but even all my vigilant watchdoggery can't keep up with one commonly overlooked bit of idiosyncrasy: band logos. the pop music world is filled with cool ones, not so cool ones, and ones that somehow attack all your senses rendering you worse off than helen keller (ooh, slap my taint and call me 'sassy'!). but let's get our collective head out of our collective ass for two moments. pop logos tend to mirror the quality of the bands themselves - bland and derivative; boring and shitty; just plain gay (who are these dorks anyway?)

incidentally, a lot of talented bands elect to keep it real and go with ordinary and non-threatening logos. they shouldn't be confused with the aforementioned 'boring and shitty' category. no; they're simply too cool for school. it's kinda like brad pitt thinking, 'i know i'm rich, good looking with hair more tussle-able than yours, can get any creature this side of the equatorial guinea to fuck me, but i'm going to let my overly unselfish and subdued, nay, non-pretentious behavior speak on my behalf.' (here's where tyler durden pauses to think about his fifteen extra guestrooms filled with sacks of yen.) 'oh dearest womb raider, don't make me choose. can't we just adopt them all?'

back on the ranch and keeping with how the craftsmanship of logos can somehow resemble the hallmarks of the bands they represent, there are the logos that are half-assed rip offs of the other, much better ones.

anyways, in the pantheon of band logos, only a scant few have withstood the rigors of time. which ultimately brings me to my point; my calling. yes, i've decided to turn over a new leaf and give up being a satirical pain in the ass to focus on being the gandhi-esque philanthropist i truly am.

so, odin's court - question for you. as a band that's ever so eager to please, not nearly cool enough to have a plain logo, and yet overly devoid of any real talent, how can you avoid contracting the dreadfully shameful kelly bundy syndrome and steer clear of being hammered in ass by father time? ladies, your answer - start a black metal band. (to be continued...)

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear the jackie brown soundtrack ..]

BOUTROS, IS DISNEYLAND PART OF THE U.N.?

so it's 1216 on a tuesday afternoon, i'm chilling with crazy old pretentious crm team lead, and i've never been as suicidally bored as i am right now.

ok, once before.

and maybe it's been several months since i last posted, but it takes awhile to get over an former icon of sexual promiscuity getting tittyraped, repeatedly, by father time. oh christina, your blatent refusal to cheat the ravages of age like so many of your celebrated and esteemed brethren, is beyond mysterious.

in any event, i leave you with the most important contingent international law has ever contractually honored:

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear muse's black holes and revelations...]