Take A Report

I was talking to a some random guy the other day, and he was about to describe his laid-back office environment as “chill” or “relaxed”. But instead of simply using one of those acceptable terms, he opted to describe the place as “chill-laxed”.

I let it slide, but when people use terms like that it gives me this tingly sensation of embarrassment for them, accompanied by a face that looks like i just received an ice cold enema.

MORAL OF THE STORY: If you’re talking to a stranger, just stick to the script “bro-seph”.

Now grab a card on your way out…

Take a report.

-Large

Hey… Guess what I did yesterday?

Applied for unemployment.

It’s actually real simple to do on-line, but for some reason I was prompted at the end to call the NY Unemployment Office and confirm my info by phone. After a quick 27 minute wait on hold, I was helped by a charming city worker who confirmed my eligibility, and said I will be receiving $405 a week… Now for those of you who don’t know, $405 just happens to be the most that the city gives out, and for a split second I was kind of proud to hear that I was eligible for it. After all, what better sign of success does a man need then to be put in the highest echelon of unemployment compensation. But my overwhelming sense of pride was quickly tempered by the realization that I have no job.

To make a little lemonade, and since I finally had a human being on the phone, I wasn’t going to let him go without fucking around a little. So I asked the guy if there was any chance I could get my hands on some of that delicious Government cheese. Turns out that the cheese giveaway program was discontinued years ago, and no matter how much I pressed him to see if there was any other food product I could get on the arm, this gentleman politely informed me that $405 a week is all I’m getting from Uncle Sam.

So that’s it. I go on-line once a week and confirm I’m still without a 9 to 5, and the gub’ment sends my fat ass $405. Which I am going to spend on overpriced bottles of wine and loose-fitting sweatpants… Sweet deal if you ask me.

Now does anyone have the number for the Foodstamp Office?… Just leave it on my machine, ’cause I’m gonna grab a nap.

Enjoy work, and take a report.

-Large

I took the train to work on Friday… It’s officially the Summer, and weekend traffic is fucking brutal.

I was sitting alone in the window seat of a 3-man row, and I heard an unmistakable sound. It was the sound of someone using a nail clipper, and it was coming from the row behind me. I turned around quickly, and the guy behind me was caught dead to rights. I shot him a look which must’ve conveyed my disgust effectively, because he was putting it back in his pocket before I was fully turned around back into my seat. I guess “no harm no foul”… I didn’t have to say a thing, and this mousey son-of-a-bitch had no intention of standing his ground.

Still, I couldn’t contain my imagination from running wild with scenarios. What if this guy had continued clipping, and a stray nail shot out and hit me in the cheek? Jesus Christ, I would think in a case like that I would somehow manage to summon that adrenaline fueled, super-human strength you read about when someone saves their child who is pinned under a car or something. There is an off chance that a stranger’s fingernail would be just the catalyst that would drive me “off the reservation”, and cause me to rape another man in front of a train car full of people. Lucky it never came to that, I guess.

It’s called “personal hygiene” because you do it on your own time, Jerk-off.

Take a report.

-Large