Robotman Update

Since my last few posts work has continued to be grosser than ever in the 15 years since I have worked there. It's not even fucking funny anymore. There are more meetings than ever, they cancelled our payraises for this year. Whatever, I just shut up and so what I have to do to survive is this corporate pit of shit and liars.

Shit's cool at home, pretty much the usual stuff. My Dog is pregnant which should be material for a future post. Oh yeah, and I smashed my toe (picture right,click to enlarge) and it hurt like a motherfucker, but still preferable to how my gut wrenches when I pull into my work parking lot each morning.

As far as the other posters, Sacopapa is enjoying his son's baseball games and all the baseball moms, but the season is now over. Sugarking can't find time to post at his new job and hasn't been able to squeeze in the time at home. Alteregoman I'm sure is loving work and enjoying traffic on a daily basis.

Well hopefully all the bitches start posting again at least to get my disgusting and injured left big toe macro close-up off the top of the page. I am the Robotman.

Liar Pigs

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Apocalypto

The planets have aligned. The stars are in synchronous orbit. The earth is still in an equinox state. A Portal has formed in my home. It is possible the very Gates of Hell will open. Fucking Stargate, The Fifth Element, The Four Horsemen, all that shit is coming down. It is here.

What is the cause and yet the very creation of these apocalyptic conditions you ask? It is the most random of occurrences that may signal the end of existence, The Furor, Fashion Show, and my female Maltese have achieved menstrual synchronization. A human-canine estrogen explosion. Worlds are colliding.

The house is like a strange vortex, and I expect Rod Serling at every turn. If my house was ever haunted, those fucking ghosts are long gone. My male dog is a nervous wreck and likes it under the couch, my son is pretty much barricaded in his room or out of the house. A rare wise move from Robotman Jr.

I, on the other hand have to navigate this Science Fiction Horror Show like Mad Max or the Omega Man. Or maybe more like Eddie. I’m on day one of this ordeal and it seems like eons have gone by. I tread carefully, quietly and am praying regularly as I await the Dark Age to pass while avoiding Time Tunnels or Wormholes around the house. Escaping a Borg Cube would be a cakewalk.

I do have a light at the end of the tunnel. Next week my friend Nytefall is visiting from Bumfuck upstate New York and we are going to see Iron Maiden, whose lyrics by the way, are mild compared to the week that lays ahead of me.

If I survive I hope to be posting about whatever burnt out shit Nytefall does on his visit. I am, and shall always be, the Robotman.

Pillsbury Assassin

It’s been awhile since my last post for a few reasons. After “The Message” I was artistically drained, work has been a pain in my ass the last couple of weeks with barely anytime to surf or write, and at home, in between dealing with the family, I have been playing Civilization IV like a fucking crack addict to prepare to join my geek friends in an online game.

I’m thinking my wife may really hate me. This past Saturday the kids are out and I’m playing Civilization IV with Alexander the Great kicking my ass. The Furor says she will make hot cinnamon rolls for me so I can eat while I play. Ahh, domestic bliss. A little while later she comes over with milk and three warm cinnamon rolls. I inhale the first one while my Redcoats are struggling to hold off Greek forces from taking London. Yummy.

I pick up the second one as a dozen or so Greek Elephant Brigades are filing into London. This one I bite gently and feel the bottom a little hard, and think it may be a little burnt or something so I bite down hard. Immediate pain shoots through my teeth, I have a dental bridge so it was extra shattering, and also feel something slice my tongue. I pull the cinnamon roll away, blood coming out of my mouth. I guess the scream got The Furors attention as she was walking over as I looked at the bottom of the cinnamon role and I now see the top of a can securely affixed to it. Barely able to speak, I point to the can top so my wife can see it. Laughing, she claims it was an “accident”. The top of the Pillsbury can must have gotten stuck “somehow” she claims. I look over to my PC and London has fallen to the Greeks. Both London and I are hurt, bleeding, and lost.

Shortly thereafter, while picking up Fashion Show, I tell her about the incident. She giggles and says that she doesn’t “think “ The Furor is trying to kill or maim me. She then mentions that at least there are cinnamon rolls at home to munch on, and I tell her it was only one can and we ate them. This information, unlike the information concerning my injury and worries, gets her upset. Right then my wife calls and tells me to stop and get another can of cinnamon roll mix. A little later they sat with my son and his girlfriend eating cinnamon rolls and having a good laugh. My tongue hurts and the Greeks take York. I am the Robotman.

Home and Garden

So with this years tax return I had told my wife we would get a new patio set and Barbeque Grill. Saturday night she says she found the best deal on-line at the Home Depot site and it even had free shipping on the Patio set that we both like (not that my opinion matters), and we will get the grill at a store since it should fit in the SUV.

I say great, I will order the patio set online now, thinking that Home Depot is 5minutes away and Lowes is 10 minutes away I could knock out the Sunday chores in short order tomorrow. Not so fast, Robotman. The Furor orders that we will first we will go to Sears, which at the lame ass mall, the other further away Home Depot, and Lowes. My afternoon plans with the Green Fairy foiled.

So I get up extra early Sunday to make sure I have time for at least a spliff before the sucky Sunday I am about to have. We get to Sears and the place is a ghost town, couldn’t tell you how they are still in business. After like a half hour patio analysis and another 30 minute grill debate. I find a lone employee and find out almost none of the grills are in stock and it will take weeks to order and deliver them. Plus delivery is $65. Exit stage left.

At the faraway Home Depot we found out that the Patio shipping was only free if you ordered online and they didn’t have the BBQ grill we like. After that she had to stop at Ross for some curtain rod nonsense. By this time the spliff effect was long gone and I had a hellish cotton mouth, so while she’s in Ross, I go to pharmacy. I was already done with my drink before I even got the register. Yet another molasses line I had to stand in. After that, a useless trip to Lowes and I was at the breaking point. It’s been like 5 hours and we didn’t accomplish jack shit. Meanwhile I have Fashion Show calling and texting about a ride.

We get home and pick up Fashion Show. My son hasn’t needed rides lately as his girlfriend has her license and car, and by the look of them you would think they were going to a Jim Morrison & Janice Joplin look-alike contest. We drop off Fashion Show, go to Chili’s where I slam 4 Jack and Cokes (all day happy hour!) 2 strawberry daiquiris to chill The Furor and stuff our faces. After that found the BBQ grill we wanted at a great price at the Home Depot close to my house and ordered the Patio online. Oh yeah, and spent like 4 hours that putting the grill together that night. I am the Robotman.

The Ten Commandments for Assholes

Every fucking day you go out and there are assholes everywhere. Though many I believe are unintentional, they just don’t know they are assholes. Here are an easy 10 tips to follow to not be such an asshole. (Please picture Chartlon Heston reading aloud)

1. Mind your own business.
This one is paramount and self explanatory.
2. Shut the fuck up.
Silence is golden. You just can’t go wrong if you apply this shining nugget of advice. It goes very well with #1.
3. Do not block public areas ever, for any reason.
This includes by your person, your vehicle, your stuff, your idiocy, whatever. Do not impede others. For example, if you hate abortion, that’s cool just don’t block the fucking sidewalk I am using.
4. Don’t touch anyone ever, without their permission.

One exception.
5. Don’t touch anyone’s stuff ever, without their permission.

One exception.
6. Don’t step on anyone’s property ever, without their permission.
Why take foolish risks.

7. Don’t make loud noise in or near public areas.
Your fucking gay cell phone conversations don’t interest me, fuckface.
8. Control your children in public.
Do whatever you have to do. Lock them in cages in the attic if you can't handle them. I will be following rule #1 if you decide to smack the shit out of them for breaking rules 1-7.
9. Use turn signals and merge properly.
Enough already with the retarded driving.
10. Return things that are lent to you without being reminded by the lender.
Really just a basic courtesy, practiced by so very few.

Hope these tips come in handy, feel free to print them out and put on your fridge and throughout your workplace. I am the Robotman.

Alterego Valentino

Kudos, cheers, and much bravada to Alteregoman for being the only one with the balls to post on Valentine's Day. Though it was still technically the night before and I'm sure he was still a big pussy keeping the significant other happy all day like the rest of our sorry asses . Nonetheless the only one to post on V-Day.

I also send honorable valentine mentions to Queen Succubus, Queen Sheeba, The Hater, The Furor, and all the wives for putting up with us, and without whom this blog would not be possible.

Split Ends

I hate getting haircuts. Not just the waste of time that it is but also the annoying social interaction. I wish I had a hairdresser and an auto mechanic in the family. Life would be much easier.

When I was like 13 I started to let my hair grow, as I was getting into metal, it was the style and ending 12 years of hellish trips to the barbershop seemed really cool. Not quite. My mother was on my ass like flies on shit about getting a haircut. So first day of summer before HS after a few weeks of constant nagging I told her I would get a haircut. She even gave me $20 and told me to go to a nice place to get it cut. I went straight to the Cuban Barbershop and got a my head shaved for 3 bucks and purchased 3 nicklebags, 2 slices, and fruit punch with the change. Needless to say my mom never harassed me about my hair again. My drill instructor sure did a few years later.

Nowadays I only get haircuts at lunchtime as I don’t want to waste real time with that nonsense. The Furor started harassing me (talk about full fucking circle) about a haircut few days ago. My company recently moved the offices closer to my home, but away from the salon in Miami with old lady who already knew me and didn’t yap away the entire haircut. The place I go to now is still fucking 20 questions every time and I haven’t found a steady haircut lady. At best, I was hoping to get this one lady as she has nice plastic boobs and cleavage to at least look at while she blabs away.

I get there and the teenage girl at the counter wasn’t too happy that I interrupted her cell phone conversation and I notice Tits is busy. In 5 minutes I get called by a chubby older Nicaraguan lady, “could this be my quiet steady?”, I wonder. After some brief instructions by me, it was non-stop chattering. This lady could now write my biography. Fucking Geraldo couldn’t have pried more information from me. My head was spinning by the end of the haircut. It was in Spanish (which I speak) so it just made it more “radio bemba”-like.

Now for next time who knows what to do, could Nica Lady quiet down since she knows me? Should I just stick to Tits and put up with her blabbing for the view? It could take years of experimentation and posting. Haircuts suck balls and I am the Robotman.

Lost In Space

One thing I can’t complain about with The Furor is neatness. She is a female Felix Unger and just the cleanest and neatest person I know. Everything in plastic boxes, baggies, and put away. All is very nice, neat and organized.

The problem is a lot of times when she cleans she reorganizes and I don’t know where anything is afterwards. I have to be fucking Sherlock Holmes and try to figure out where the shit is if she is not around. The other day she wasn’t home I needed to open a bottle of wine and couldn’t find the opener. For some reason she wouldn’t answer the cell phone so it took me a half hour to open the bottle with a couple of knives and I ended up with a cut finger and half the cork fallen in the bottle.

Last weekend I had to take a bath, and noticed the soap was spent, and couldn’t find where the new damned bars of soap have been secured. The Furor was with Fashion Show at the hairdresser, so I call them and my daughter answers. She ends up asking The Furor in front of the whole salon. Later when I went to Beauty Salon to pick up Fashion Show I found I was the joke of the day at fag central. It was so funny I forgot to laugh.

Of course I can’t complain because then I’ll get, “what, you don’t want me to clean!?” and that is one path not even Indiana Jones would dare go down.

I’ve been holding a shit as I write this and guess what? I know we have toilet paper and baby wipes as I recently purchased a freight train full of both at Costco. Now my choices are, look for them and possibly shit my pants, call her at her friend’s house so they can all have a good laugh, clean my ass with paper towels, or clean my ass in the shower. Stay tuned for an ass cleaning update. I am the Robotman.

Stupid Bowl Post Game

Just a quick update on the Superbowl Pool.

Had James Harrison been tackled after his interception I would have won the halftime prize. Seems nobody taught Kurt Warner how to tackle. Damn. $250 in and out of my pocket.

The halftime winner was the Vietnam Vet/NRA guy. He was pretty happy so this should stay the execution of most of the office for another week or so. The final score winner was a decent enough Japanese guy who has no clue and didn’t even watch the game. He was quite happy.

I made sure to announce it in the break room and made sure wire transfer lady was there to hear us carrying on about the game and the pool. She got her coffee and left the break room with a stupid look on her face.Gambler boy wants me to do another one for the weak-ass Pro-bowl, but I told him no dice.

Well, that’s all for now, I have to call my company's new insurance carrier about some ID card errors and I’m already smelling a future post with those jackasses. I am the Robotman.

Stupid Bowl

So I’m putting together a Superbowl Pool this week, which in any normal office you could fill out fairly quickly. Not in this office. Compared to normal people I know I’d say I have average sports knowledge, but compared to the drones in my office I’m fucking Mike Lupica.There is even a Brazilian guy who works in my office that is not into soccer. That’s like a gorilla that doesn’t like bananas. The office is a sports black hole.

There is one guy who is a baseball fan and he ruins it by liking the Red Sox and another guy who likes to gamble on anything. Now apart from having to catch people when they are not in meetings to participate in the pool, I have to explain how the fucking thing works to everybody. Why do I do this? Red Sox boy and gambler had been begging me when I was out to lunch with them a few days ago and agreeing was the only way I could change the topic.

I whip the pool together on excel in a flash. With help from Bill Buckner and Pete Rose, we recruit people and are filling out a good portion of the grid. I carefully avoid bible thumpers and idiots. Bill and Pete aren’t so careful, before I can stop them I see them talking to the wire transfer lady. Not a bad person and does her job fine, but just an old school cackling hen.

I come over and it’s 20 questions. Mind you, I prepared a sample sheet and printed instructions so my two co-workers don’t get in to trouble. I explain to her that it doesn’t matter what teams wins, and that yes Pittsburg is quite cold this time of year, but the game is in Tampa. No, the Dolphins aren’t playing I tell her. A finance guy walks by and helps out explaining the grid. She talks very loud and this has become a 15 minute ordeal and we are supposed to be working. After all that shit, I’m like, “ok, pick your block, five bucks”. She looks at me right in the eyes and says, “Ah, nah, I don’t want to.”

Like a fucking kick in the balls. I should have slapped her in the face on principal alone. Once again I’m Charlie Brown and Lucy is a fucking fifty-five year old hag. Fuck me.

I did have a good lunch as Bill and Pete treated me to Chili’s to laugh about that shit. I am the Robotman.

Family Affair

My whole family got pissed at me during dinner last Wednesday, because of this site and especially because of fucking Sacopapa. Like I don’t waste enough time on this fucking site as it is. Before I get into why they got pissed, let me outline the cast of characters.

1. First we have The Furor. You may know her from my previous posts. Basically what she says goes. Condoleezza and Hillary have nothing on her. She’d be dropping nukes and making OPEC say uncle. I am not playing. She’s the fucking boss and that shit is cool with me as long as I have alcohol, smoke, and can watch my current shows. I am a man of simple tastes.

2. Next on the list is my daughter, 14, who I call “Fashion Show”. If you see her getting ready in the morning you’d think she was headed for the catwalk instead of fucking middle school. Her room looks like a clothing explosion went off at the Twilight premier party. I don’t mind, but it gets The Furor mad, which I receive shrapnel from, so I beg Fashion Show to clean up for sanity’s sake. She also is the only person who dares talk back to and yell at The Furor. My son and I usually head for the hills when this happens. Lucky for her she is an honor student. I told to let me know a day in advance if she ever has to show her mom an F. I’ll be working late that night.

3. Then there is my son, almost 17, his look is kind of a mismatched hippie punkrocker with a side serving of 50cent. He quit High School Baseball last year, which sucked for me but almost gave his Cuban baseball fanatic grandfather another heart attack. He is currently on a job search and getting his driver’s license soon. I can’t wait to see my new auto insurance bill. He keeps his room clean, is passing his classes, and The Furor has accepted that he will not get a haircut. He just stays quiet when The Furor gets mad at him. This gets her mad, but not nearly as mad as Fashion Show’s backtalk.

6. Last and least (the dogs are #4 and #5) there is the Robotman, which if you have read my other posts, you get the picture.

So,I get home from work last Wednesday. My wife is making dinner, a nice meat and vegetable soup since it was a bit chilly out for Florida. It will be ready in 20 minutes or so she says. It was looking like an evening of sheer domestic bliss. Since I have a few minutes, I sit at the computer and surf foobies for a quick peek and then I go to my wife hates me. Cool, I notice a new Sacopapa post. Off the bat he mentions his father-in-law so I already know this is going to be good. After reading about the shit, the breaking of shit, the butterknife, the fucking bananas, I almost piss my pants laughing. Disgusting yet hysterical.

My wife calls me for dinner as the kids are already sitting down. I go over still fucking giggling and thinking about the shit post. They ask what I am laughing at and I start telling them about the post while my wife is serving the food. They are all starting to dig into dinner when I get to the part, still laughing, about the piece of shit the size of a midget leg. Suddenly, all hell breaks loose, and I quickly stop the snickering.

Fashion Show gags on the soup, eyes watering and unable to speak. Later she told me soup went out her nose. My son drops his spoon, “fucking dad, we’re eating”. If I wasn’t his dad I think he would have punched me in the face. The Furor looked at me like I just ate a box of fucking crayons, just completely disgusted at my existence and speechless for a moment (a brief moment).

The dinnertime discussion was pretty much her talking about what an immature ill-mannered idiot I am with my kids agreeing 100% while I ate my soup still chuckling inside at the banana-shit post. I am the Robotman and I’m starting to think my wife may hate me.

Gates of Steel

I live in one of those cookie cutter gated communities. My home is nice and fairly new. The neighbors are decent enough and more importantly don’t park in, around, or block my driveway. This was a constant struggle and source of aggravation for me when I lived in no-parking available Northeast New Jersey, so I really appreciate it. One of the next-door neighbor families we call the Incas, nice people, but take away the Wal-Mart clothes, add some ponchos and llamas, and it’s a National Geographic photo. (Sacopapa’s father-in-law would have a field day). My other next-door neighbors are an older couple from Chicago, so thankfully no actual born and bred Floridians next door. After that it’s the usual assortment of multi-race families, boob jobs, and cops. Florida has many different types of law enforcement always driving around doing God knows what when they are not giving me tickets (State, Sheriff, City, County, School Board, Town, Postal, Animal, DEA, Customs, ATF, just endless) and many of them live in gated communities and like to park their police cars in the driveway. I even have a fire investigator nearby who parks his police style fire car in his driveway. You would think I’m set if I’m ever robbed or have a fire. Not that I’d bank on it, but you would think.

My community has an Association which you are forced to pay an annoying amount of money to every month. This is for upkeep of the grounds, clubhouse, useless gate guards, basic cable (which now they cancelled and didn’t lower the fee!), that type of shit. The association needs leaders who decide if Jill can paint her house pastel blue or if Joe can park his canoe in the driveway. Real fucking life and death shit. Since most fucking people have jobs, guess who are the leaders of this Association? Old retired white people. No offense to old retired white people, but who wants them choosing décor, making rules, and hiring 3rd party services? No one, that’s who, not even white people. They actually get voted in as barely anyone votes and only other old retired white people are running against the incumbents.

Here are excerpts from a random posting on my community website (that by the way, the old retired white people don’t access or post on the site) to get a little taste for things…

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Yes I agree with (so and so) we need to know the number of foreclosures and also the number of people not paying the dues...we definitely need to know this before the new HOA fees effective. I am paying my dues on time and I am not responsible for others. Everyone is in this economic crisis...paying too much for everything mortgage, insurance, gas...and now HOA fee increase no way this is ridiculous. With a HOA fee $134 and separate cable we are going to spend close to $200 on a monthly basis…After all paying these fees.., the security company is not doing their job right, they are allowing the visitors without calling the home owners…
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There are dozens of posts and threads like this. The HOA (homeowners association) is a cartoonish preposterous imitation of any type of formal organization and really should be put out of their misery. I’d kill them myself if it wasn’t for that fact that I’d probably go to jail.

So several months ago after much nagging and needling from my wife and I “agree” to have the outside of the house painted. Little did I know what was in store with this undertaking. First step was to go to the clubhouse and see one of the hired managers/attendants. Mostly they are always out to lunch but you can catch them for a few minutes a day. First trip is my wife and daughter. My wife is from Costa Rica and her English isn’t that great and the manager ladies have thick Jamaican* accents, so my daughter, on my suggestion, went along as translator. I should have filmed that shit and posted it on You Tube.

From what they told me, the lady wasn’t exactly unfurling the pom-poms at their arrival at the office. The lady tells my wife she can pick the color form the pre-approved color “color wheel” and it can be approved then and there. My wife asks if she can take the wheel home. The lady says a refundable deposit of $100.00 is required and it will be returned after the painting is done and the house is inspected by some person the old white people hired. Like we are going to steal it with them knowing our address. My wife doesn’t have the checkbook and is slightly annoyed, and decides she doesn’t like any of the colors on the color wheel. The lady really could give two shits and is following the retarded rules of the Association, so she gives the “planned construction” approval form to my wife, since she didn’t like the colors on the stupid wheel.

I arrive home from the job with all the meetings and get ambushed by my wife and daughter about the forms, the lady, the paint, the $100, and other assorted topics. They drone on and on for 30 minutes not even giving me a chance to get out of the “business casual” costume I’m forced to wear to work. Next up, my wife says we are off to Home Depot to pick the color we will have the house painted. Once there, I just say yes to any color she mentions and wait for her to decide. If there is a color I do particularly like, I say no as that will increase the chances of that color getting picked.

Since the wife was handling the hiring of good painters, a task which I wouldn’t want normally, much less in the Banana Republic of South Florida, I got the task of filling out the “planned construction” approval form, turning it in to the lady and finding out the next steps. I fill out the form and attach a color sample, savage sands, or whatever the fucking name was, and the $100 check.

After like 3 days of dropping by the clubhouse with no one there and the pressure from the wife, I finally catch the lady one day at 420pm turning off her computer with purse and key in hand. Mind you, this fucking place is supposed to be open till 6pm. She looks at me like I fucking spilled milk on her dress or something. I explain that I am having my house painted and before I can even finish my sentence she whips out the color wheel and tells me to pick a color. I explain the situation. She says the association meets once a month for pre-construction approval (which includes picking a paint that is not on the fucking bullshit wheel that I just want to shove up this lady’s ass). She tells me that the next association “construction approval” meeting is in 3 weeks and then they will mail me their decision. The Furor was not amused when I arrived home and told her this last bit of information, and somehow I was to blame.

The paint color was finally approved and a few painful weeks later I had a freshly painted house. Now I had to turn in the inspection request form, and after the inspection I could get my check back. A few days later I turn in the form.

Around 5 months later (yesterday) I’m at the back gate (no guard gate) of my community after leaving work a bit early to finally pick my $100 deposit check from the paint hassle, as they have managed to evade me for months. The fucking gate doesn’t open, the brand new $30 gate entry chip sticker I was forced to wait in line for last SATURDAY at the clubhouse that is now needed to get into the community doesn’t seem to be working…..fuck…..making the u-turn for the one mile drive to the front gate I remember my wife also mentioned she wants to screen in part of the backyard (construction approval hell part duex) …..it never fucking ends.

*Disclaimer: While I do think most people are lame and gross, I have nothing in particular against Jamaicans, Costa Ricans, Incans, or white people. It just so happens that those cultures are involved in this sad and factual tale. I am the Robotman.

Inauguration Blues

In general, I just don’t get the whole Obama-Mania thing, but wanted to nonetheless watch the inauguration (one friend just told me to drink the Kool-Aid already). One thing for sure, our new president gives great speeches and he did not let down. It was delivered flawlessly and was positive, motivating, and as partisan as possible. Godspeed Mr. President.

A few observations.

You have to be kidding me with the homely poem lady. What the hell was that? This lady follows Obama, one of the great orators of our time with a weak ass def-jam poetry appearance. Why don’t you just get Sinbad to do 5 minute of stand up? What the fuck? JFK had Robert Frost at his inauguration, a once in a lifetime thing. I don’t care what anyone says. No one was into that lady. Maybe if she was hot I could see it. I will never in my life figure this out. I am genetically incapable of comprehending the homely poem lady after the Obama Inauguration Speech. Bizarre.

There was one shot during the speech where you could see Bush and Cheney sitting with Obama in the background. It’s funny to imagine what they were thinking. I’m sure Bush was thinking about the ranch and getting the fuck home. Exit stage left like the Alien in Spaceballs. Cheney on the other hand I draw a blank. There with his hat and fancy earmuffs looking like a statue.

……it’s freezing I want this to end…..this Obama needs a punch in the face….fucking W needs a bitchslap…...oh yeah, have to call the callgirl agency for tonight, I hope Ms.Honey Melons is available….wonder if Palin wants to go Moose hunting, loved to get a piece of that ass…

Really it could be anything. I would love to know what it was.

Bill Clinton, even in the freezing cold, eyes moving, scoping potential pussy. A year ago he was on the fast track to the White House as the first “First Gentleman”. This guy was getting play in the White House as President, I can only imagine living in the White House without an actual job. He would have eventually just fucked every chick that worked there. Today’s teenage boys owe him a debt of gratitude. Back in my day it was easier to get laid (which was not easy at all) than to get a blowjob. Now ask any 16 year old boy and he will tell it is the age of the blowjob. Bill really loosened up “third base” to say the least.

I’d be scared to piss off Michelle Obama. She’s got some big shoulders and muscles. Plus with that big jaw, her mad face must be very frightening. I think she could take Obama. He better not be thinking about getting blowjobs like Bill. He will get his ass kicked.

Before I close I again wish the 44th President the best of luck. Now to take me out of my Inauguration Blues, the greatest band in the history of rap……

Face to Facebook

I know it’s kind of gay, but I have an account on Facebook.

I tried myspace, but the interface is annoying and ugly. Also, I really don’t want to know that much about my kids. It’s just not healthy for anyone involved. Hopefully and probably what I taught them in their younger days will carry through and they will be good people, but with this whole middle age crisis thing going at the same time as the teenage “I know everything and am invincible” era (boy and girl so I get a taste of the both very different worlds) it’s not as easy as back in the day. So forget myspace patrolling. They have fucking cell phones I pay for if I need to contact them.

In the two months I’ve been on FB it’s cool to see what has become of old high school & college classmates, military buddies, or whatever. What is truly entertaining is to see what freaks they have become and which freaks became normal. Reformed druggies and wacked out bookworms. It’s more of a reunion thing at my age that a social calendar or contact list as I imagine it is for younger people.

Here are 10 notes or observations I made about FB:

1.Most single chicks in their 40’s are fucking out of their minds. That is some dangerous territory. Scary, scary stuff. Weird diets, yoga, cleansings, high on life. Whew. A guy needs be like 55-60 years old to deal with that. The extra years of wisdom are required. I would be just baffled.

2.“Your family is beautiful” is a very popularly used phrased on FB. “You look just the same” is a close second.

3. People are all so nice and friendly with open identities, rare on the internet. This is lightyears away from the hate spewing on the old “Klingon Ridges” threads on the Star Trek Discussion Forum before the answer was canonized.

4.No one I knew ever became famous. Not even close, Bud!

5.Most people I knew, including myself, are fat. The fat ones are still fat and many of the thin ones are now fat.

6.Hot chicks have many friends.

7.Married guys all have that “I have been domesticated and trained“ family picture posted. Like that wasn’t the guy with the beer funnel and bong tube in his mouth at the same fucking time a few years back. (note: that’s still you man!!)

8.Large of amounts people from North Jersey moved to South Florida. Like fucking geese flying down for the winter and staying forever.

9.Even though FB is kind of gay and lame, it’s much cooler than work.

10.My wife is my friend. On FB at least.

Well that’s all I have for now on this topic. If there is any observation you would like to add please comment, as FB seems to be a bottomless pit of material. Godspeed friends, I am the Robotman.

Slave Labor

So a couple of days ago I was in line at the post office with a sore neck thinking…

My wife has a small business which I believe may be breaking labor laws. The lone employee she has does website management, finance, shipping, handles customer contact, and any additional duties or errands that may come up at any time. This employee is screamed at and belittled regularly. In addition to all this, this employee does this for no pay at all or even compensation for use of his vehicle. Who, do you ask would put up with such a thing? I‘m sure you’ve guessed by now that it’s yours truly. Just for the record, I also have a more than full time job at the company with all the meetings and am the on command taxi for my 2 teenagers. I also have 2 small dogs that I help care for (that by the way happen to be ripe for future posting material).

After a typical day of useless meetings and the typical complaining and endless e-mails and phone calls from distributors at work, I am safely in my car happily listening to a Howard Stern replay glad to be headed to meet a friend for a couple of drinks. Suddenly my iphone rings with a specific ringtone, which I know is my wife. She informs me that a bunch of orders need to ship out today before the Post Office closes, 7pm, or first thing in the morning. She can’t do it since she has to finish work on the next day orders, not that she needs a reason to make me do it. Additionally she tells me to pass by Publix for dinner, as she has no time to cook. She also mentions that my son is at his friend’s house and probably needs be to picked-up. I sadly call my friend and tell him that I’m out for happy hour. It’s like 6pm, but I plan to use the automatic shipping machine for the packages which is available past closing so I don’t have to get up extra early in the morning. I get a text from my son about the ride he needs, I call back that I’m on the way after getting dinner. My daughter calls me that she needs to go to Barnes and Nobles to get a book for school. Chill time is getting further away.

I get to Publix, avoiding the 10 items or less lane ( see my past post on this), and find a lane with 2 guys looking like they are also in a hurry and even with one of the guys getting a credit card rejection, I got out of there fairly quickly. I get to my son’s friend house and the kid’s dad is the driveway. I know him and he’s a good guy so we chat a bit and he invites me in for a drink. I sadly tell him I have food in the car and can’t stay. My son gets in the car, greets me, turns on the ipod and begins his usual texting frenzy. I them remember that there is a new English style pub by the Barnes and Nobles where I could have a couple of drinks while my daughter takes her sweet time at the books store. I get home, slap together a few ham croquet Cuban bread sandwiches from the stuff I got in Publix and everyone stuffs their faces. I change clothes quickly as I’m still in that the lame “business casual” costume I wear to work.

My daughter and I are then off to Barnes and Nobles and my drinks, packages to ship loaded up in the car for after the bookstore. Once I park, I tell her to call me when she’s done and we split up, she calls back at me saying she said she needs $20.00 for the books. I then realize I forgot my wallet in my work costume, but do have some cash on me. I count up a couple of 5’s and singles..$21.00. I give my daughter the money and sadly return to the car my drink plans foiled once again. I turn on the Howard replay again and the fagberry rings, ugh, work. This idiot keeps me on the phone for like 30 minutes about a meaningless excel sheet and reminds me that we have an early meeting. I hope he gets a fucking flat tire in the morning. A few minutes later, my daughter strolls out of the store with the books and faguccino coffee thing from the fagbucks that is inside the bookstore paid with the money leftover, about a Jack and Cokes worth of change, I calculate.

Since I forgot my wallet I have to go home before I go to the post office. We get home and I recover the wallet and off to the post office. I will have a drink when I get back home I think. As I pull in the Post Office parking lot, I can see from the outside there is no line at the machine. The Enterprise red alert goes off and it’s my wife. This call is not related to her business, but I have to go to the pharmacy to get milk. I hang up and my daughter calls me two seconds later and tells me she needs Elmer’s Glue for school.

Since I have like 14 packages, I first go to the lobby and get one of the carts that are available at this post office and go back to my car to get the packages. I load them up and head back to the lobby and notice a lady now headed in. Damn. As I walk in she is at the machine, stands there and leaves. Hmmm. She walks past me as I head to the machine and says nothing. I arrive at the machine and the screen reads—temporarily out of service. I felt like Charlie Brown when Lucy pulls the football away. I then go to the pharmacy and get the milk, making sure it’s 2% so I don’t get yelled at, and the Elmer’s glue. I get to the line. One slow cashier and like 7 people in line. 20 minutes of Hell. I get home, settle in and get instructions from the wife and kids about what I need to do for them tomorrow. Finally, relax time is here. I make a nice Jack and Coke take a small sip, sit on my recliner, put the drink on the coffee table and put on ESPN HD. I must have dozed off…at 6am I abruptly wake up to one of my dogs yapping loudly in my ear.

I had fallen asleep with my neck in a fucked up position. I look over at the table and see my Jack and Coke, ice long ago melted, now being sniffed and examined by the dog. I remember that I have to rush as I have to get to the Post Office (who knows what awaits me there) and an early meeting at work. Damn, was my neck sore. I am the Robotman.

Meetings about Meetings

They really love to have meetings where I work. I work for a fairly large foreign company with offices all over the world, and don’t know 100% if it’s particular to them, same in Corporate USA, or it’s just company culture but they really, really, like to have meetings. Budget meetings, product meetings, inventory meetings, HR meetings, formal meetings, informal meetings, video conference meetings, security meetings, staff meetings, birthday cake meetings, the list is just really endless. There are hundreds of different types of meetings. There are smaller meetings to plan for the bigger meetings. It’s truly a miracle any work even gets done with all these meetings. This doesn’t even include major company events, which requires multiple meetings that are held about the upcoming event. Basically it all boils down to….we manufacture products and want to sell them…. not treading any new ground by any stretch of the imagination.

There are also these really weird meetings called "brainstorming meetings”, if you have never been to one, I hope you never do, and if you have, I’m so very sorry. Usually the guys that need a punch in the face talk the most at these, and annoying chicks that talk fast also like these meetings very much. (My company USA HQ in NJ, so there is no shortage of the latter). At the HQ in Jersey all they do is have meetings. The whole fucking place, like 800 people including top brass can be eliminated and substituted by a weekly e-mail from Tokyo. The company would save millions. I have yet to openly suggest this at a meeting. I’m biding my time on that one.

As I mentioned, I’m not sure if this is all companies and industries, as the only other job I ever had was in the Air Force and things were very, very different, I might as well have worked on fucking Deep Space Nine it was so different. Meetings were at the beginning of shift and fairly quick and to the point. Unless of course you where in some kind of trouble and some goofball First Sergeant had to pick you up stone drunk at a Korean whorehouse at 3am…but I digress…

Sometimes, when you are not a main participant of the meeting it can be difficult to stay awake, the droning, multiple languages, repeated bullshit, video conference technical hassles, etc. Everyone in that super annoying “official meeting voice”, fucking sickening. Tic Tacs are essential in this situation, between the light shaking sounds of the container and a refreshing Tic Tac in your mouth at all times, it’s much harder to fall asleep, especially at the meetings where you shouldn’t be plugging away at the laptop or fagberry and at least feign interest and attention. Some people just bring a gallon of coffee, but caffeine is really not my thing. I’m more of a THC man myself, and that certainly is not permitted at the meetings. So it’s Tic Tacs and cold water for me while praying that the next motherfucker that says “synergy” gets hit by a bolt of lightning and slapped by Odin himself. Any and every grown man sounds gay when he says that word, ”synergy”. Try it. If I was a gay pop star I would change my name to Synergy.

I was at my most recent meeting, wintergreen Tic Tacs and fagberry in hand (personally, I have an iphone, which I love and will write about how much I love it sometime, but also have a work issued Blackberry, which unlike everyone else on earth, I hate and will also write about how much I hate it sometime). It was a Building and Cubicle Security and Safety meeting with a guest speaker old lady reading a power point presentation out loud word for word, like I can’t read. Fucking Romper Room. If I didn’t know personally, I would think this was a fictional event. We had a pre-meeting for this with the whole office like 2 days before and had a team of 4 people, which thankfully I was not on, have of a bunch of prep meetings for this fucking thing. Seems having a case of bottled water, doughnuts and a projector is fucking mission impossible. As I was looking around the room, dizzy from the incessant cackle of this old hag, I noticed the HR girl and the finance guy who are banging each other on the DL (everyone knows they are, and they know that everyone knows, and everyone knows they know that everyone knows but everyone still acts like they don’t know) seem to be giving each other some cold shoulder high school nonsense, hehe, could there be trouble in corporate paradise? I was sure the big-mouth receptionist would fill me in and later I found out finance boy was tapping some finance girl up at the Atlanta office on his trip last week. I’m surprised the blabbermouth network took that long to get the message here. People don’t learn, you can’t tell anyone any personal shit in this pussified, no sense of honor, kiss-ass, henpecked corporate world. That was one thing about the military, men were men, a guy could cheat on his wife or girlfriend or whatever and know their buddies had their back. You could ... gasp … shudder … trust someone.

Sometimes we have in-office catered lunches at the all day meetings, and believe it or not, guess what some people want to talk about during lunchtime? The damned freaking meeting! I kid you not. I know it sounds preposterous and incredible to regular people, but may George Carlin come back from the dead and stick a red hot poker up my ass if I am lying. I don’t even have a name for freaks like this. It’s just very odd and bizarre behavior, fucking cult-like. Me and another guy or two, try to stray away to talk about sports, movies, tits, you know regular stuff, but mostly resistance is futile and we get sucked in. A lot of times I skip the catered lunch and just say I have an errand to run and just eat fastfood crap while thinking that I really should have learned to play guitar or something.

Well, guess what? I have to go to a product meeting in five minutes, some new product that does the same shit as the last one. Gotta pay that mortgage somehow. I am the Robotman.

10 items or less

So I’m at the 10 items or less aisle at Publix. First, this isn’t a rant about 11 items, though those people are assholes and should be slapped anyway. The purpose of the 10 items or less line is for speed, to move quickly out of the store. I had a deli sandwich, fried chicken, a small box of papas rellenas, bananas, and a bag of chips with money ready in my hand. It’s after work and I am bringing dinner home.

Once I get a good look at the lady in front of me, I immediately get the feeling I’m in trouble, but already have time vested in this line. Off the bat, she wants to use some coupons, but she doesn’t have them. She tells the cashier teen-age chick she needs the flyer. The girl lazily sloths over to another cashier, finds one and returns. Then a coupon ripping frenzy and a coupon qualifying item discussion takes place. People behind me begin to leave the line. Finally, after like 15 minutes including a coupon scanning hassle, all is rung up and the cashier announces the total to the lady. The lady looks for her wallet or whatever for a good 60-90 seconds, a lifetime in this scenario. I guess initially she thought the shit was free, because having to pay seemed to hit her like a big fucking surprise. Then, for her next trick she takes out her checkbook and asks the cashier for pen. I almost collapse then and there, holding on to the counter. The cashier then requested the lady’s driver’s license, which took the lady another minute of searching her bag, only after she wrote out the check in a deliberate casual manner. Another couple of minutes pass with the teenager chick writing on the check and wrestling the check into the check slider thing. Finally it seems the transaction is done. For the cherry on top, the lady holds up line to balance her checkbook before she moves on with the bagboy. No tip for that bagboy. By the look on his face he knew it also.

It is clear that this lady is a rude sub-human beast that has no manners or consideration for any other person on earth. She is a cunt and a pig, No one can argue this these cold hard facts. Regardless, it is not her fault that this happened. It is the fault of Publix. If you have a 10 items or less line, it should also be a no check line since the purpose of the line is to get you out of the store quickly and efficiently and paying by check is slooow. Now a person like that vile lady would probably get on the line anyway, but at least have the policy in place and a sign. I would have recommended this to Publix, but there was no manager around, I was hungry, in a hurry, and the cashier could give two shits about shit and does have a pretty bad acne problem to worry about. Later my kids mentioned that the chicken was a bit cold and my wife asked what took me so long. To finish my supermarket lament, I bring you The Clash....

End of the Holidays

The holidays have past. Another year is upon me. The holidays were pretty much the usual spend-a-credit-a-thon this year. I went to parties where I don’t know a bunch of the people and seem to always end up near some person I just met a few hours before. Seems an awkward time to meet someone, “Hello there, I’m Joe Knucklehead and work at the cheese factory, oh and by the way Merry Christmas”. “Hey, Bob Fuckface, the cement salesman, happy fucking new year”. Sheesh.

There was an added monkey wrench this holiday season with my dryer and the Best Buy repair team, but I will leave that sordid tale for another day. For now, let’s just say that Mr. Brad Anderson, CEO of Best Buy, knows me and my dryer works.

One thing, with teenagers, the Christmas lists do get easy. Here is the whole list: 1.CASH. No beating around the bush for my offspring. My wife is a bit more complicated, as it’s a mix of cash, gifts, obedience, and yet another thin slice of my soul. Not too bad. I did receive a few nice gifts from the wife and kids that I paid or will pay for. Hey, it’s the thought that counts.

I did have a few days off work during the holidays and still have a couple before I go back, and as they say a bad day doing pretty much anything else besides work is still better than a good day at work. Then it’s back to the cubicle and business trips where I must serve and plan for the interest of others in exchange for monetary payments until the corporate gods decide that I have become too old and/or too expensive. Now, the “current economic conditions…” announcements and e-mails now add to the long list of weekly bullshit of synergy, products, and budget planning. One of these days that Vietnam Vet/NRA supporter a few cubicles away is going to snap and shoot half the people in the place. I told him to let me know and I’ll call in sick that day. He said he would. There is this guy in my office who keeps saying “happy new year” to people on the phone until the end of January. I even tell him it’s annoying as shit, but he thinks I’m joking. Hopefully Vietnam guy takes him out on rampage day.

That’s all the time I have for now, since I’m the automated taxi and cash dispenser, I have to go pick up my 14 year old daughter at the roller rink and have some skinny 14 year old boy with pimples attempt to direct some feeble and nervous greeting towards me as my daughter gets in the car. I am the Robotman.

Happy Holidays from Robotman

See you all Jan 1st. Happy Holidays to all and please no one (The Sugarking) get a DUI/DWI. I'm good to go as my son now has his drivers permit. Hopefully he doesn't get wasted also, but that's a whole other thing...

Well anyway, be safe and here is a DWI holiday classic for your Xmas Eve enjoyment.