Where have you gone, Steve Buscemi? Jesus loves you more than you will know. Woah Woah Woah. Seriously, where are you? I feel like you haven’t graced the big screen in years with your presence. I miss you, kid.
Remember when you were cut in Wilmington, N.C., in front of a then-unknown-Vince Vaughn and by someone my brother was acquainted with during his crazy college days (my brother’s, not Stabber McGutterstein’s)? Shedding blood in a dive bar in an obscure state ties you to that state for life. You are practically a North Carolinian. That makes you my family. I worry about my family when I don’t see them regularly.
You enchanted me as part of the Adam Sandler troupe in such amazing fetes of comedy as Big Daddy, Billy Madison, and Mr. Deeds. You were totally believable as the nicotine-addicted, ex-crack head therapist alongside Sandra Bullock in 28 Days. From your earliest films, to your dabbles in drama, you have always been the best character actor in Hollywood. I am sorry if you have felt under appreciated.
You are quite possibly the ugliest actor to ever sign a Hollywood Contract. With your skinny physique that would make a Next Top Model jealous, to your jacked up teeth – the envy of all West Virginians, you gave America the one thing that politicians and philanthropists have failed to provide: real hope.
Hope that ugly people, too, can make it in the most superficial industry the world-over. Hope that talent can overcome physical deformities and a receding hairline and, finally, hope that Adam Sandler’s movies could actually be comically redeemed. Thank you.
I miss you. I didn’t know your name until 2007, 20 years after your first role, but, at the very least, I liked you. I really liked you. Come back.
- Pokey
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Interview Tips to Land the Job of Your Dreams!
For all of you job seekers out there, you know the stress that comes with the interview process. You meet the recruiter and size him or her up, realizing that he or she is the Gate Keeper to the job of your dreams, or at least one that will pay the bills. When researching interview strategies, each and every source makes it a point to stress how important it is to stand out. They then go on to suggest answers to the most common interview questions – and they are all the same. So, how can you stand out?
Don’t follow the advice you read. Follow mine.
Recruiters are trained and paid to read between the lines of what you say. So let’s put THEM to the test and see if they are doing their job. Here are 3 of the most common interview questions and the answers that I think will set you apart from the other 250 gajillion applicants for the same position.
DISCLAIMER: I do not promise that you will get the job if you use my suggestions. In fact, you will probably be blacklisted and will never again get an interview. However, so long as the government keeps extending unemployment benefits, you should be okay.
Question #1: How do others describe you?
Best Answer: I am amazing in bed.
Never in the history of answers can five small words say more about you and why you are highly qualified for any job on the planet. What do these words really mean? Well, here are just a few of the many qualities a good recruiter will derive from those words, assuming he or she can read between the proverbial lines.
What it says about you:
A. I play very well with others.
B. I am willing to go all night to get the job done right.
C. I can both take direction and anticipate what is needed from me.
D. I am willing to try new things and am innovative enough to come up with a few of them on my own.
E. And, finally, the clincher: I can please even the toughest clients.
Question #2: Tell me about your greatest weakness.
Best Answer: I can’t cook.
Although this answer may lack the raciness of the last, it is still a great answer. Most people try to turn a weakness into a strength or choose something benign and then elaborate on how they’ve taken steps to fix it. Trust me, it won’t work. Everyone and their mother attempts this and recruiters are prepared to call your bluff. An example: Sometimes I focus too much. That answer is about as convincing as a used car dealer telling you that the 1993 Cadillac with rims, fuzzy dice thrown over the rear view mirror, and bullet holes on the side was only driven by a little old lady to get to church on Sundays. I say, why not state a weakness that doesn’t need to be fixed! Again, if the recruiter is doing his or her job, prepare to sign the work contract.
What it says about you:
A. I have never had the time to learn to cook because I have been so focused on my education/career.
B. I won’t mind eating dinner at my desk, purchased from the snack machine in the lobby, because it is probably better than anything I could make at home.
C. My refrigerator is really just a holding cell for beer, white wine and Lean Cuisines, which means I have nothing to go home to anyways, so why not work.
D. I could care less about involving myself in activities that take time away from work and could possibly be relaxing. I’d much rather throw myself into my career and sacrifice my personal life as well as my health. Eventually, I will die of a stress-induced heart attack, but not before giving you the best 20 years of my life. Of course, this will occur before I reach retirement age, which will save the company thousands of dollars as I will never tap into my pension.
Question #3: Why do you want to work for this company?
Best Answer: I had a vision and in it, God told me to work here.
How could they turn you down? God commanded it.
What it says about you:
A. You are the chosen one.
B. You are quite possibly delusional, which means you are both highly creative and will be a lot of fun at the office Christmas party.
C. You can turn the Culligan bottle into wine, thus making casual Fridays even more awesome then when employees where first allowed to wear jeans and polos.
D. Not hiring you could result in either a plague or a swarm of locusts descending upon the office, which legal ramifications the company will be unable to absorb.
I hope this helps all you job searchers out there! Even if you don’t get the job, I guarantee that you will be among the most memorable, if not the most memorable, interviewee the recruiter has ever met.
Cheers.
- Pokey
Don’t follow the advice you read. Follow mine.
Recruiters are trained and paid to read between the lines of what you say. So let’s put THEM to the test and see if they are doing their job. Here are 3 of the most common interview questions and the answers that I think will set you apart from the other 250 gajillion applicants for the same position.
DISCLAIMER: I do not promise that you will get the job if you use my suggestions. In fact, you will probably be blacklisted and will never again get an interview. However, so long as the government keeps extending unemployment benefits, you should be okay.
Question #1: How do others describe you?
Best Answer: I am amazing in bed.
Never in the history of answers can five small words say more about you and why you are highly qualified for any job on the planet. What do these words really mean? Well, here are just a few of the many qualities a good recruiter will derive from those words, assuming he or she can read between the proverbial lines.
What it says about you:
A. I play very well with others.
B. I am willing to go all night to get the job done right.
C. I can both take direction and anticipate what is needed from me.
D. I am willing to try new things and am innovative enough to come up with a few of them on my own.
E. And, finally, the clincher: I can please even the toughest clients.
Question #2: Tell me about your greatest weakness.
Best Answer: I can’t cook.
Although this answer may lack the raciness of the last, it is still a great answer. Most people try to turn a weakness into a strength or choose something benign and then elaborate on how they’ve taken steps to fix it. Trust me, it won’t work. Everyone and their mother attempts this and recruiters are prepared to call your bluff. An example: Sometimes I focus too much. That answer is about as convincing as a used car dealer telling you that the 1993 Cadillac with rims, fuzzy dice thrown over the rear view mirror, and bullet holes on the side was only driven by a little old lady to get to church on Sundays. I say, why not state a weakness that doesn’t need to be fixed! Again, if the recruiter is doing his or her job, prepare to sign the work contract.
What it says about you:
A. I have never had the time to learn to cook because I have been so focused on my education/career.
B. I won’t mind eating dinner at my desk, purchased from the snack machine in the lobby, because it is probably better than anything I could make at home.
C. My refrigerator is really just a holding cell for beer, white wine and Lean Cuisines, which means I have nothing to go home to anyways, so why not work.
D. I could care less about involving myself in activities that take time away from work and could possibly be relaxing. I’d much rather throw myself into my career and sacrifice my personal life as well as my health. Eventually, I will die of a stress-induced heart attack, but not before giving you the best 20 years of my life. Of course, this will occur before I reach retirement age, which will save the company thousands of dollars as I will never tap into my pension.
Question #3: Why do you want to work for this company?
Best Answer: I had a vision and in it, God told me to work here.
How could they turn you down? God commanded it.
What it says about you:
A. You are the chosen one.
B. You are quite possibly delusional, which means you are both highly creative and will be a lot of fun at the office Christmas party.
C. You can turn the Culligan bottle into wine, thus making casual Fridays even more awesome then when employees where first allowed to wear jeans and polos.
D. Not hiring you could result in either a plague or a swarm of locusts descending upon the office, which legal ramifications the company will be unable to absorb.
I hope this helps all you job searchers out there! Even if you don’t get the job, I guarantee that you will be among the most memorable, if not the most memorable, interviewee the recruiter has ever met.
Cheers.
- Pokey
A History of Myself, By Me Part 3: How I am Personally Responsible for the Creation of Democracy
As a very humble person, probably the humblest of the humble (I make Ghandi look like Tom Cruise), I have often quarreled with myself over whether I should or should not admit the obvious. I have come to the conclusion that, after over 2500 years, it is time that the world knows the truth:
I, Pokey, invented Democracy.
There, I said it. I feel much better now. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. No, wait, that was just my cat getting up from the nap she decided to take on my torso. At the least, admission is step one in the process of recovery. So how did it happen that I brought forth the one and only true form of government? (Sorry all you Dictators, Socialists, Communists, and Monarchs out there. You suck and you Dictators suck about 10,000 times more than the others. And Prince William is balding prematurely. So there.)
Well, here is how:
I was playing outside one day when I was seven. My brothers and sister weren’t around for some reason so I was attempting to play four-square on my own. Note to all: It doesn’t work. Anyways, so this old man pulls up next to me and says he has candy and puppies in his car.
The guy looked like the love child of Einstein and Della Reese, but had a friendly enough face. Of course, my parents had told me to never, ever get into a stranger’s car without first asking the secret code word we’d developed (Napolean – not Bonaparte, but rather a large shaggy mutt we’d inherited from my grandmother), but I’d had a hard day and needed a Snickers. So I climbed into his car. Before I knew what hit me, he plugged the year 508 BC into some machine on the center console and sped off at speeds that would have him taking the Pole at the Indy 500.
The next thing I knew, we were somewhere I’d never been, surrounded by men wearing bed sheets in the style of the Toga. Not normal for 1988, unless you lived in a Fraternity House.
“Welcome to Greece, don’t drink the water,” the man said.
I was talking with Cleisthenes one day. I’d been in Athens about 16 minutes by then. And he was expressing his desire to revamp the Athenian Constitution following the downfall of Isagoras and to establish a new form of government that would allow more people to participate in the decision-making process and to provide a platform for the development of competing media interests. I thought about it for awhile and realized that America in the future had such a form of government! Not only that, but we also had fast-food and an obesity epidemic. I figured that was exactly what Clei – as I called him – was getting at.
I suggested that he establish such a form of government in Athens because it was much better than anything else and, plus, the losers in each election could be fed to lions. (I added that because it seemed more exciting than a conciliatory speech). He loved the idea.
When it came time to name this new form of government, he originally wanted to call it “Cleimocracy.” I told him that sounded a little too egocentric and suggested “Democracy” instead.
Some people claim that the word is derived from the Greek word “dēmokratía,” meaning “rule of the people.” However, that is a misconception. It is really a product of my own mind and stems from my desire to make it exceedingly clear that all other forms of government are ridiculous. So, “Them other forms are crazy” was shortened to “Dem others crazy”, which was then shortened to “Democracy.” It’s a historical fact.
Thus, Cleisthenes eventually became known has the Father of Democracy while I got a swizzle stick and a pat on the head for my efforts. This goes to show that, no matter what, the people in power will get all the credit even though it is always the underlings who do all the work. I'm not bitter - much.
After Clei and I had worked out the logistics, the old man who had brought me there ran at me in a frenzy. He was holding two jugs of wine as he was being chased by shopkeepers yelling “STOP, THIEF!”
“Pokey!” he called out, “It’s time to go back to the future!”
As we jumped back into the car, I shouted one last word of warning to Clei, “Beware of the Ides of March! Oh, and don’t hire young female interns named Monica!”
As we arrived, safely, back in 1988, the old man dropped me off in front of my house. He warned me never to speak of this to anyone. I promised I would never tell a soul.
I guess I lied.
And now you know the rest of the story.
-Pokey
I, Pokey, invented Democracy.
There, I said it. I feel much better now. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. No, wait, that was just my cat getting up from the nap she decided to take on my torso. At the least, admission is step one in the process of recovery. So how did it happen that I brought forth the one and only true form of government? (Sorry all you Dictators, Socialists, Communists, and Monarchs out there. You suck and you Dictators suck about 10,000 times more than the others. And Prince William is balding prematurely. So there.)
Well, here is how:
I was playing outside one day when I was seven. My brothers and sister weren’t around for some reason so I was attempting to play four-square on my own. Note to all: It doesn’t work. Anyways, so this old man pulls up next to me and says he has candy and puppies in his car.
The guy looked like the love child of Einstein and Della Reese, but had a friendly enough face. Of course, my parents had told me to never, ever get into a stranger’s car without first asking the secret code word we’d developed (Napolean – not Bonaparte, but rather a large shaggy mutt we’d inherited from my grandmother), but I’d had a hard day and needed a Snickers. So I climbed into his car. Before I knew what hit me, he plugged the year 508 BC into some machine on the center console and sped off at speeds that would have him taking the Pole at the Indy 500.
The next thing I knew, we were somewhere I’d never been, surrounded by men wearing bed sheets in the style of the Toga. Not normal for 1988, unless you lived in a Fraternity House.
“Welcome to Greece, don’t drink the water,” the man said.
I was talking with Cleisthenes one day. I’d been in Athens about 16 minutes by then. And he was expressing his desire to revamp the Athenian Constitution following the downfall of Isagoras and to establish a new form of government that would allow more people to participate in the decision-making process and to provide a platform for the development of competing media interests. I thought about it for awhile and realized that America in the future had such a form of government! Not only that, but we also had fast-food and an obesity epidemic. I figured that was exactly what Clei – as I called him – was getting at.
I suggested that he establish such a form of government in Athens because it was much better than anything else and, plus, the losers in each election could be fed to lions. (I added that because it seemed more exciting than a conciliatory speech). He loved the idea.
When it came time to name this new form of government, he originally wanted to call it “Cleimocracy.” I told him that sounded a little too egocentric and suggested “Democracy” instead.
Some people claim that the word is derived from the Greek word “dēmokratía,” meaning “rule of the people.” However, that is a misconception. It is really a product of my own mind and stems from my desire to make it exceedingly clear that all other forms of government are ridiculous. So, “Them other forms are crazy” was shortened to “Dem others crazy”, which was then shortened to “Democracy.” It’s a historical fact.
Thus, Cleisthenes eventually became known has the Father of Democracy while I got a swizzle stick and a pat on the head for my efforts. This goes to show that, no matter what, the people in power will get all the credit even though it is always the underlings who do all the work. I'm not bitter - much.
After Clei and I had worked out the logistics, the old man who had brought me there ran at me in a frenzy. He was holding two jugs of wine as he was being chased by shopkeepers yelling “STOP, THIEF!”
“Pokey!” he called out, “It’s time to go back to the future!”
As we jumped back into the car, I shouted one last word of warning to Clei, “Beware of the Ides of March! Oh, and don’t hire young female interns named Monica!”
As we arrived, safely, back in 1988, the old man dropped me off in front of my house. He warned me never to speak of this to anyone. I promised I would never tell a soul.
I guess I lied.
And now you know the rest of the story.
-Pokey
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Health Alert: 20 oz Soda Bottles that Are Too Hard to Open (AKA Why cans are better)
Let me start off by saying: I hate scare-media, in fact, I tend to do the opposite of what the Evening News tells me to do – for principle, naturally. While TV broadcasts and newspapers droned on and on about the Swine Flu or the Anthrax, I made it a point to lick handrails and open suspicious mail. However, this time I must make an exception. Read on.
It has come to my attention that there is a new health risk that directly affects 99% of non-Amish America: 20 oz. Soda Bottles. Indeed, horrific and sensational statistics developed from the mind of yours truly following minutes of careful and tedious reflection while watching Monday night football conclude that more Americans are injured by 20 oz. soda bottles than are eaten by gangs of angry mutant ninja turtles each year or than get their news from any other source.
The perils of 20 oz. soda bottle use are many. If shaken, the top could be blown from the base of the bottle all together. The trajectory of its launch could lead to eye loss. Worse yet, if the drink is accidentally/purposefully shaken too hard, the whole thing could go, creating a mushroom cloud above Cincinnati that makes Hiroshima look like a day in the park. The destruction from the explosion and subsequent firestorm is just too awful to describe. I just hope that there are no women with breast implants within a 20-mile radius of the epicenter.
Even worse, the bubbly goodness could fizz up as you open the bottle, causing the liquid to completely soak your shirt as you head to interview for your dream job, leaving you with a soiled appearance and no time to change. Long story short: You don’t get the job and within 6 months have to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of your working life selling string door to door. The boy or girl you thought was “the one” dumps you and moves in with your former best friend. A la Bridget Jones, you wind up alone and eaten by wild dogs. No one finds you or even attempts to look for you until the stench permeating from your apartment becomes unbearable.
You might laugh and say, “Lol. O-M-G. That would never happen to me.” (Oooh, I rhymed!) That, my friend, would be a mistake. What do you think is the real reason there are so many out of work individuals in this country? Think about that the next time you watch the news, sponsored in part by Pepsi…
All those things would make a bad day worse. But the most horrific injury of all occurs when the factory attaches the cap too tight, making it almost impossible to twist off. You spend hours in agony attempting to open the bottle in order to indulge in the sweet, sweet nectar that is contained within. You grunt and you turn. You scream and you turn. Nothing works. You try switching hands or putting the thing between your knees, or you give up altogether and slam the top on the counter in a last-ditch attempt to knock the seal loose and are again denied.
You throw the whole zeug in the trash can (unrecyclable because it contains liquids), thereby killing the planet and wasting $1.49 + tax as well as the opportunity to win a free soda if your secret code (which you can’t see because it is located under the cap) is a winner. Any way you go at it, you wind up tearing off half of the skin on your hand and bleeding like a stuck pig. Congratulations, you also now must deal with carpel tunnel the rest of your miserable, caffeine denied existence.
I wonder: If the soda companies had placed a larger version of the 20 oz cap on the Gulf Oil Rig, would there have been a leak? Hmmmm. Deep thoughts.
It is time we stand up against this offense to humanity known as the hard screw. Demand that soda bottles come from factories reasonably able to be opened. Be vigilant and remain on the lookout for people attempting to open these bottles and stop them before it is too late! Do your part to make this great nation of ours once again safe for soda drinkers!
Join me, friends! I want to live in a country where I can enjoy carbonated beverages without fear of death or bodily harm! I want my soda! In a can!
-Pokey
It has come to my attention that there is a new health risk that directly affects 99% of non-Amish America: 20 oz. Soda Bottles. Indeed, horrific and sensational statistics developed from the mind of yours truly following minutes of careful and tedious reflection while watching Monday night football conclude that more Americans are injured by 20 oz. soda bottles than are eaten by gangs of angry mutant ninja turtles each year or than get their news from any other source.
The perils of 20 oz. soda bottle use are many. If shaken, the top could be blown from the base of the bottle all together. The trajectory of its launch could lead to eye loss. Worse yet, if the drink is accidentally/purposefully shaken too hard, the whole thing could go, creating a mushroom cloud above Cincinnati that makes Hiroshima look like a day in the park. The destruction from the explosion and subsequent firestorm is just too awful to describe. I just hope that there are no women with breast implants within a 20-mile radius of the epicenter.
Even worse, the bubbly goodness could fizz up as you open the bottle, causing the liquid to completely soak your shirt as you head to interview for your dream job, leaving you with a soiled appearance and no time to change. Long story short: You don’t get the job and within 6 months have to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of your working life selling string door to door. The boy or girl you thought was “the one” dumps you and moves in with your former best friend. A la Bridget Jones, you wind up alone and eaten by wild dogs. No one finds you or even attempts to look for you until the stench permeating from your apartment becomes unbearable.
You might laugh and say, “Lol. O-M-G. That would never happen to me.” (Oooh, I rhymed!) That, my friend, would be a mistake. What do you think is the real reason there are so many out of work individuals in this country? Think about that the next time you watch the news, sponsored in part by Pepsi…
All those things would make a bad day worse. But the most horrific injury of all occurs when the factory attaches the cap too tight, making it almost impossible to twist off. You spend hours in agony attempting to open the bottle in order to indulge in the sweet, sweet nectar that is contained within. You grunt and you turn. You scream and you turn. Nothing works. You try switching hands or putting the thing between your knees, or you give up altogether and slam the top on the counter in a last-ditch attempt to knock the seal loose and are again denied.
You throw the whole zeug in the trash can (unrecyclable because it contains liquids), thereby killing the planet and wasting $1.49 + tax as well as the opportunity to win a free soda if your secret code (which you can’t see because it is located under the cap) is a winner. Any way you go at it, you wind up tearing off half of the skin on your hand and bleeding like a stuck pig. Congratulations, you also now must deal with carpel tunnel the rest of your miserable, caffeine denied existence.
I wonder: If the soda companies had placed a larger version of the 20 oz cap on the Gulf Oil Rig, would there have been a leak? Hmmmm. Deep thoughts.
It is time we stand up against this offense to humanity known as the hard screw. Demand that soda bottles come from factories reasonably able to be opened. Be vigilant and remain on the lookout for people attempting to open these bottles and stop them before it is too late! Do your part to make this great nation of ours once again safe for soda drinkers!
Join me, friends! I want to live in a country where I can enjoy carbonated beverages without fear of death or bodily harm! I want my soda! In a can!
-Pokey
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fan Mail: Andrew Zimmern
Dear Mr. Andrew Zimmern, Host of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern:
Your food choices are as bizarre as the name of your show suggests. However, what I find to be more bizarre is the look you get on your face right before you shove live bugs, putrid maggot meat or cow dung soup in your mouth. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after staying up for 72 hours meditating on the issue and cutting my toenails, I figured it out. It’s the same look that Hannibal Lector gave Clarice when he said, “I ate his liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Scaaaaaary. The food is already freak nasty enough – perhaps tone down the facial effects.
So you have totally made a career out of travelling to obscure locations and scoffing down so called “delicacies” that the Department of Health would ban from being served in the US. You have probably been exposed to more diseases than hours the media spent covering the dreaded Swine Flu. I am sure your intestines are a thriving cesspool of dysentery and salmonella. But you haven’t keeled over yet! Mad props.
I think it’s time to add another element to your show, though. The squeamish factor can really only get you so far. To make things a little more interesting, I propose that you and Samantha Brown have a smack down UFC style. Instead of normal things like mud, pudding or jello, you could hold the match in a pit of mezcal-soaked agave worms or skewed crickets! That way, when you pin her (or vice versa) you can shove those protein-enriched, low fat treats in her face!
Sure she’s like 5 ft. tall and probably weighs as much as your left arm (or less), but I hear the girl is freakishly strong. This one time she took down a whole tribe of Aborigines on a trip to the Australian outback – blind folded, with both arms tied behind her back while Irish Dancing to the Purple Rain Soundtrack. They tried to steal her Shrimp on the Barbie. In fact, she’s been known to pull broken down Tour Busses and regional jets full of complaining retirees wearing white Reeboks and counting the hours until the expiration of their here-and-now safely to mountain-top destinations. I believe she holds the record for on-time arrivals and doesn’t charge extra for checked luggage. (Take that airline industry.)
At any rate, my suggestion (in summary form): Less face, more fight. Samantha Brown is a must.
-Pokey
Your food choices are as bizarre as the name of your show suggests. However, what I find to be more bizarre is the look you get on your face right before you shove live bugs, putrid maggot meat or cow dung soup in your mouth. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after staying up for 72 hours meditating on the issue and cutting my toenails, I figured it out. It’s the same look that Hannibal Lector gave Clarice when he said, “I ate his liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Scaaaaaary. The food is already freak nasty enough – perhaps tone down the facial effects.
So you have totally made a career out of travelling to obscure locations and scoffing down so called “delicacies” that the Department of Health would ban from being served in the US. You have probably been exposed to more diseases than hours the media spent covering the dreaded Swine Flu. I am sure your intestines are a thriving cesspool of dysentery and salmonella. But you haven’t keeled over yet! Mad props.
I think it’s time to add another element to your show, though. The squeamish factor can really only get you so far. To make things a little more interesting, I propose that you and Samantha Brown have a smack down UFC style. Instead of normal things like mud, pudding or jello, you could hold the match in a pit of mezcal-soaked agave worms or skewed crickets! That way, when you pin her (or vice versa) you can shove those protein-enriched, low fat treats in her face!
Sure she’s like 5 ft. tall and probably weighs as much as your left arm (or less), but I hear the girl is freakishly strong. This one time she took down a whole tribe of Aborigines on a trip to the Australian outback – blind folded, with both arms tied behind her back while Irish Dancing to the Purple Rain Soundtrack. They tried to steal her Shrimp on the Barbie. In fact, she’s been known to pull broken down Tour Busses and regional jets full of complaining retirees wearing white Reeboks and counting the hours until the expiration of their here-and-now safely to mountain-top destinations. I believe she holds the record for on-time arrivals and doesn’t charge extra for checked luggage. (Take that airline industry.)
At any rate, my suggestion (in summary form): Less face, more fight. Samantha Brown is a must.
-Pokey
A Rap Song in Memoriam of the Recent 14th Anniversary of the Death of Tupac Shakur (To the Tune of Bah Bah Black Sheep)
Tupac, Tupac
Are you really dead??
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
T’was three bullets to my head.
One for P Master;
One for my dame;
One for my homies who roughed up Baby Lane.
Tupac, Tupac
You ain’t really dead.
You got me. You got me.
I’m undercover with the Feds.
I knew it.
RIP Mr. Tupac Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)
- Pokey
Are you really dead??
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
T’was three bullets to my head.
One for P Master;
One for my dame;
One for my homies who roughed up Baby Lane.
Tupac, Tupac
You ain’t really dead.
You got me. You got me.
I’m undercover with the Feds.
I knew it.
RIP Mr. Tupac Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)
- Pokey
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Rant: Prescription Commercials and Side Effects, What's the Point?
Let me just say that I find it ridiculous how prescription drug commercials must include all potential side effects in the 30 seconds the commercial is on TV. Even if such affects have never occurred but there could maybe possibly be a .0000000001% chance that it could happen to someone who was born with translucent skin and curly flourescent pink hair.
I seriously think I end up knowing more about the potential negative effects than what a drug is actually designed to do. We’ve all seen these commercials. They terrify me and not just because the acting is awful and the dialogue is on par with “Debbie Does Dallas,” but because I now fear pills – even Tylenol – because I am afraid I will wake up the day after taking one with some unrelated terminal illness. I had a headache and now I have the Ebola Virus and heartburn. Dun dun dun. Case in point:
A group of late 20-something women are at some big city elitist club, sipping their cosmos and having the same discussion I have at least 5 times a day, every day, with my friends about the horrific bloating and unrelenting cramping that accompanies our monthly cycles. Anyhoo, one of the women – who is always an M.D. – excitedly tells her friends that if they take X Drug, they will only have their periods one to three times a year with some spotting in between!! Sounds great! Wrong. The next 18 seconds are spent as the Dr. Doolittle calmly warns her friends that not only will X Drug curb the effects of Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but could also lead to more cramping/bloating/fatigue/sexual inadequacy/psychosis/the growth of a second head/blackouts followed by public indecency. Then the name of the drug appears on the screen juxtaposed over a scene of the women booty grinding and with a further admonishment to consult one’s doctor before starting use. Of course. I should definitely consult my doctor because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE DRUG IS ACTUALLY INTENDED TO DO!
So many of the side effects are either completely unrelated to the issue the drugs combat or are even more horrible. Seriously. Who wants to buy a drug to relieve, say, arthritis that can cause impotency? The worst is when the drug could potentially worsen your condition or even CAUSE the condition. “Take the Pill once a week to prevent pregnancy. Warning: May cause a Kate Gosselin style pregnancy and subsequent disconnect from reality.” There are even some side effects that can make an otherwise normal appearing person resemble a Star Trek character – one of the ugly ones with more limbs than sense. Though, thinking about all the cool things I could do with a third arm, like brush my teeth, make a sandwich and conduct an orchestra all at the same time, kind of makes me want to risk it…
Even things as benign as chewable vitamins for kids could cause chest hair growth and bowel irritability. Of course, I made this up, but it’s possible. Imagine your child popping those delicious Flinstones’ Chewables in order to get those essential growth vitamins denied to them by strict diets of Twinkies and Chicken Nuggets and subsequently resembling an incontinent Saskwatch. Forget potty training and buy stock in wax.
It’s no wonder that “performance enhancing” drugs aren’t widely advertised – at least on television. Talk about freak nasty. Such disclosures would require that commercials be rated and they would definitely be NC-17. It would, however, give women who are hit on by muscle bound Neanderthals the upper hand: “I would go out with you Billy Bob, but I happen to know that those muscles are completely unobtainable without scientific assistance. And I also happen to know that you are probably struggling with mood swings and a diminished libido and that the increase in the diameter of your forearms is directly proportional to the shrinkage in other areas. So, I just don’t think this is going to work out. Pun fully intended.” Ouch.
The saddest part of all is thinking about the poor lab animals that have developed the side-effects these commercial so indiscreetly detail. I get chocked up thinking about all the rats out there who thought they were there to be cured of the alcoholism they developed living in the basement of Studio 54 and law schools throughout the country. They may now be sober, but must live the rest of their days with five tails, a fear of anything that begins with the letter A and Betty Davis’ eyes. Tragic.
Basically, I think the FDA should allow drug companies to simmer down the scare tactics. I would much rather the 30-second spots in between episodes of The Middle and Modern Family be spent providing information about what the drug is supposed to do rather than the awful things it could do to .01% of the population, i.e. your Aunt Mildred. Trust me, if I choose to seek treatment for IBS or Peripheral Vascular Disease and am interested in a drug, I will consult my doctor, thank you very much. (Not only that, but I HAVE to consult my doctor to get a prescription at which time my doctor will be required to discuss those all to interesting side effects with me.)
Oh, and one more thing: I hate the word “placebo.” It just sounds dirty.
That is all.
-Pokey
I seriously think I end up knowing more about the potential negative effects than what a drug is actually designed to do. We’ve all seen these commercials. They terrify me and not just because the acting is awful and the dialogue is on par with “Debbie Does Dallas,” but because I now fear pills – even Tylenol – because I am afraid I will wake up the day after taking one with some unrelated terminal illness. I had a headache and now I have the Ebola Virus and heartburn. Dun dun dun. Case in point:
A group of late 20-something women are at some big city elitist club, sipping their cosmos and having the same discussion I have at least 5 times a day, every day, with my friends about the horrific bloating and unrelenting cramping that accompanies our monthly cycles. Anyhoo, one of the women – who is always an M.D. – excitedly tells her friends that if they take X Drug, they will only have their periods one to three times a year with some spotting in between!! Sounds great! Wrong. The next 18 seconds are spent as the Dr. Doolittle calmly warns her friends that not only will X Drug curb the effects of Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but could also lead to more cramping/bloating/fatigue/sexual inadequacy/psychosis/the growth of a second head/blackouts followed by public indecency. Then the name of the drug appears on the screen juxtaposed over a scene of the women booty grinding and with a further admonishment to consult one’s doctor before starting use. Of course. I should definitely consult my doctor because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE DRUG IS ACTUALLY INTENDED TO DO!
So many of the side effects are either completely unrelated to the issue the drugs combat or are even more horrible. Seriously. Who wants to buy a drug to relieve, say, arthritis that can cause impotency? The worst is when the drug could potentially worsen your condition or even CAUSE the condition. “Take the Pill once a week to prevent pregnancy. Warning: May cause a Kate Gosselin style pregnancy and subsequent disconnect from reality.” There are even some side effects that can make an otherwise normal appearing person resemble a Star Trek character – one of the ugly ones with more limbs than sense. Though, thinking about all the cool things I could do with a third arm, like brush my teeth, make a sandwich and conduct an orchestra all at the same time, kind of makes me want to risk it…
Even things as benign as chewable vitamins for kids could cause chest hair growth and bowel irritability. Of course, I made this up, but it’s possible. Imagine your child popping those delicious Flinstones’ Chewables in order to get those essential growth vitamins denied to them by strict diets of Twinkies and Chicken Nuggets and subsequently resembling an incontinent Saskwatch. Forget potty training and buy stock in wax.
It’s no wonder that “performance enhancing” drugs aren’t widely advertised – at least on television. Talk about freak nasty. Such disclosures would require that commercials be rated and they would definitely be NC-17. It would, however, give women who are hit on by muscle bound Neanderthals the upper hand: “I would go out with you Billy Bob, but I happen to know that those muscles are completely unobtainable without scientific assistance. And I also happen to know that you are probably struggling with mood swings and a diminished libido and that the increase in the diameter of your forearms is directly proportional to the shrinkage in other areas. So, I just don’t think this is going to work out. Pun fully intended.” Ouch.
The saddest part of all is thinking about the poor lab animals that have developed the side-effects these commercial so indiscreetly detail. I get chocked up thinking about all the rats out there who thought they were there to be cured of the alcoholism they developed living in the basement of Studio 54 and law schools throughout the country. They may now be sober, but must live the rest of their days with five tails, a fear of anything that begins with the letter A and Betty Davis’ eyes. Tragic.
Basically, I think the FDA should allow drug companies to simmer down the scare tactics. I would much rather the 30-second spots in between episodes of The Middle and Modern Family be spent providing information about what the drug is supposed to do rather than the awful things it could do to .01% of the population, i.e. your Aunt Mildred. Trust me, if I choose to seek treatment for IBS or Peripheral Vascular Disease and am interested in a drug, I will consult my doctor, thank you very much. (Not only that, but I HAVE to consult my doctor to get a prescription at which time my doctor will be required to discuss those all to interesting side effects with me.)
Oh, and one more thing: I hate the word “placebo.” It just sounds dirty.
That is all.
-Pokey
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Fan Mail: Lindsay Lohan, P.S.
Dear Ms. Lohan,
I see you have bested the legal system again and were released after 15 hours. I think I spent more time than that thinking of all the wonderful uses and designs for shanks. I had some I was going to share with you, but I suppose there is no need. I even developed the soon to be patented Ex-Hollywood Starlet Shank made from the blood, sweat and tears of a soiled career and an onion. I chose the onion because it smells like failure.
Alas. My hard work down the drain - much like your contract for the Linda Lovelace flick. C'est la vie. That's how upset I am. I am speaking in tongues - and FRENCH no less.
Well, at a minimum I hope those 15 hours were well spent and very formative. And I hope you forego any trips to Cannes before the big court date this go around...$300K is a lot of dough to drop for failing to appear. And, to be honest, you'll probably need the cash in the future.
-Pokey
I see you have bested the legal system again and were released after 15 hours. I think I spent more time than that thinking of all the wonderful uses and designs for shanks. I had some I was going to share with you, but I suppose there is no need. I even developed the soon to be patented Ex-Hollywood Starlet Shank made from the blood, sweat and tears of a soiled career and an onion. I chose the onion because it smells like failure.
Alas. My hard work down the drain - much like your contract for the Linda Lovelace flick. C'est la vie. That's how upset I am. I am speaking in tongues - and FRENCH no less.
Well, at a minimum I hope those 15 hours were well spent and very formative. And I hope you forego any trips to Cannes before the big court date this go around...$300K is a lot of dough to drop for failing to appear. And, to be honest, you'll probably need the cash in the future.
-Pokey
Friday, September 24, 2010
Fan Mail: Lindsay Lohan
Dear Lindsay Lohan:
May I call you LiLo? On second thought, I think I will stick with Lindsay. LiLo sounds like a spoiled French poodle with a bad perm and painted toenails. I think you should distance yourself from that moniker.
Okay, Miss Lohan. I am sorry that things didn’t work out with you and Samantha Ronson. In hindsight, your relationship was doomed from the start simply because it is impossible to merge Lindsay and Samantha without completely butchering both names beyond recognition. I tried. Think about it: Brangelina works. Brajennifer doesn’t. It’s science. If you really want to find true love, you should look for someone named Don or Donna. Lindon or Lindonna definitely have the makings of a lasting relationship.
So you failed yet another drug test and are going back to jail. You naughty girl, you. As you face the coming days and weeks and months of incarceration, some unsolicited advice: Make a shank. Shanks are important as they provide protection and can be a source of comfort. Shanks can be made out of just about anything from metal to paper. This one guy even made one out of Jolly Ranchers. Of course, he had a tattoo of a bullet hole in his forehead, but the line between genius and insanity is a fine one. If necessity is the mother of invention, then self-preservation is the mother of shanks.
Once you have made it, name your shank something nice, like “Sharpie McStabber” or “Ms. Cuts-a-lot” or “Debbie Deadmanmaker.” Shanks have feelings too, so don’t go naming it something stupid like “Apple Pantywhacker” or “LiLo.” Oh, and be creative and make your shank unique. Adding googely eyes or bedazzling it can really give your shank the necessary pizzazz to make a real impression when you drive it into the first person you catch trying to steal your tater tots (or your innocence). Don’t take my word for it, ask Martha Stewart.
Your shank will become your best friend and can be taken everywhere you go! Take it with you to the exercise yard and it can spot you while you bench press! Take it with you to the shower and you will no longer fear dropping the soap! Take it with you to the mess hall and no longer will you struggle to cut your government meat with a spork! You can even sleep with it at night and stay up late giggling and scheming how to become Inmate 56437832’s "you-know-what"!
What’s not to love about a shank? Shanks are so great that they even have their own verb that you can conjugate: “To shank, to live no more!” “I shank, therefore I am.” “I came, I saw, I shanked!” “I have shanked the maggots in the mind of the universe!” “I will shank you, but know it hurts me more than it hurts you!” Bottomline: A-list actors have bodyguards, inmates have shanks.
In all seriousness, you should really consider getting clean. Drug addiction is not a laughing matter. Drug abuse has caused the destruction of many lives and torn apart countless families. I once had hamsters. The dad got hopped up on moth balls and started staying out late, leaving his wife home alone with the kids. One day, he came back to the cage to find that his wife had eaten all the kids. Would it have happened if he hadn’t been out engaging in petty thievery to purchase his next hit? Probably. Hamsters are known for that (rabbits, wolf spiders and a host of fish are as well, but that’s beside the point). The fact is that drugs are bad and if you really try hard, you can free yourself from their grasp. I believe in you. And I believe that if you put your heart into it, you could totally finish a 12-step program in 10.
Yours very sincerely,
Pokey
May I call you LiLo? On second thought, I think I will stick with Lindsay. LiLo sounds like a spoiled French poodle with a bad perm and painted toenails. I think you should distance yourself from that moniker.
Okay, Miss Lohan. I am sorry that things didn’t work out with you and Samantha Ronson. In hindsight, your relationship was doomed from the start simply because it is impossible to merge Lindsay and Samantha without completely butchering both names beyond recognition. I tried. Think about it: Brangelina works. Brajennifer doesn’t. It’s science. If you really want to find true love, you should look for someone named Don or Donna. Lindon or Lindonna definitely have the makings of a lasting relationship.
So you failed yet another drug test and are going back to jail. You naughty girl, you. As you face the coming days and weeks and months of incarceration, some unsolicited advice: Make a shank. Shanks are important as they provide protection and can be a source of comfort. Shanks can be made out of just about anything from metal to paper. This one guy even made one out of Jolly Ranchers. Of course, he had a tattoo of a bullet hole in his forehead, but the line between genius and insanity is a fine one. If necessity is the mother of invention, then self-preservation is the mother of shanks.
Once you have made it, name your shank something nice, like “Sharpie McStabber” or “Ms. Cuts-a-lot” or “Debbie Deadmanmaker.” Shanks have feelings too, so don’t go naming it something stupid like “Apple Pantywhacker” or “LiLo.” Oh, and be creative and make your shank unique. Adding googely eyes or bedazzling it can really give your shank the necessary pizzazz to make a real impression when you drive it into the first person you catch trying to steal your tater tots (or your innocence). Don’t take my word for it, ask Martha Stewart.
Your shank will become your best friend and can be taken everywhere you go! Take it with you to the exercise yard and it can spot you while you bench press! Take it with you to the shower and you will no longer fear dropping the soap! Take it with you to the mess hall and no longer will you struggle to cut your government meat with a spork! You can even sleep with it at night and stay up late giggling and scheming how to become Inmate 56437832’s "you-know-what"!
What’s not to love about a shank? Shanks are so great that they even have their own verb that you can conjugate: “To shank, to live no more!” “I shank, therefore I am.” “I came, I saw, I shanked!” “I have shanked the maggots in the mind of the universe!” “I will shank you, but know it hurts me more than it hurts you!” Bottomline: A-list actors have bodyguards, inmates have shanks.
In all seriousness, you should really consider getting clean. Drug addiction is not a laughing matter. Drug abuse has caused the destruction of many lives and torn apart countless families. I once had hamsters. The dad got hopped up on moth balls and started staying out late, leaving his wife home alone with the kids. One day, he came back to the cage to find that his wife had eaten all the kids. Would it have happened if he hadn’t been out engaging in petty thievery to purchase his next hit? Probably. Hamsters are known for that (rabbits, wolf spiders and a host of fish are as well, but that’s beside the point). The fact is that drugs are bad and if you really try hard, you can free yourself from their grasp. I believe in you. And I believe that if you put your heart into it, you could totally finish a 12-step program in 10.
Yours very sincerely,
Pokey
Fan Mail: Miley Cyrus
I am introducing a new themed blog called "Fan Mail." My first installment is a letter to Miley Cyrus. I am calling it Fan Mail because I want to. I also like crunchy apples.
Dear Miley Cyrus:
I am not ashamed to admit that I watch Hannah Montana on occassion. I am ashamed, however, to admit that I enjoy it. Although the dialogue lacks the sophistication of, say, the Teletubbies, the premise is good. I do find it rather ridiculous that you can throw on a blonde wig and no one knows you are a mega-superstar. That's about as convincing as Clark Kent hiding his Superman alter ego behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. At least he added spandex to the mix.
I even watched The Last Song. And I am glad that I did because I had no idea you were capable of actually speaking in a normal, inside, voice. Who knew. I also think you should stick with Liam Helmsworth (or whatever his name is). Not only is he super hot, he also has an accent, which makes him double sexy.
It would also be nice if you made up with Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez. They seem like such nice girls. It would be great if you started a rock band with them and sang wholesome, family friendly songs. Maybe you could let them try on your Hannah Montana wig. Be careful if you do though. Sharing wigs can spread lice and can lead to pregnancy. I'm not 100% sure about it, but as a precaution, you should wear a skull cap.
On a different note: I am very concerned about your costumes because you seem to be wearing less and less clothing. I know the economy is bad, but I would be happy to donate what I can so you can afford the second half of your skirt. And P.S. Underwear is meant to be worn UNDER your clothing. It makes sense when you think about it. Corsets do look sexy (not to mention the fact that they are an antiquated form of torture) but the whole sado-masichism look is giving Disney a bad name.
I suppose by now you are a gajillionaire. Totally impressed. My first job netted me a cool $5.15/hr and I spent 8 hours each work day up to my pits in grease and chicken nuggets. At least I got a great discount on food and all the free soda I could drink - not to mention the horrific acne that resulted from excessive exposure to liquid animal fat, the burn scars on my forearms from grilling class D burger meat and the fact that I smelled like french fries for the entire seventh months I worked there (and no amount of scrubbing could relieve that stench).
It was all worth it when I received my first paycheck for $86.32 after taxes - I felt like I'd hit the jackpot. In fact, I bought a whole 6-pack of Dr. Pepper at the Piggly Wiggly to celebrate the occassion. Of course, I didn't have to deal with the Paparazzi. But, then again, I also didn't get my own trailer or personal trainer. I guess there are always trade-offs.
No, I am not jealous that you were named one of the most influential Hollywood celebrities before you could vote or stay up past 10 pm on a school night. In fact, I am relieved that honor wasn't bestowed on LiLo(who I will also write to once I can obtain the address of her current jail). I just hope you continue to keep your nose clean and tell your dad to get a hair cut and stop dressing like your boyfriend. He's what, 70 now?? (Your dad, not your BF.) And if you could get him to shave off his lower lip hair, that would be great too. He looks like he was eating chocolate pudding and missed his mouth.
That is all. Have a nice day!
-Pokey
Dear Miley Cyrus:
I am not ashamed to admit that I watch Hannah Montana on occassion. I am ashamed, however, to admit that I enjoy it. Although the dialogue lacks the sophistication of, say, the Teletubbies, the premise is good. I do find it rather ridiculous that you can throw on a blonde wig and no one knows you are a mega-superstar. That's about as convincing as Clark Kent hiding his Superman alter ego behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. At least he added spandex to the mix.
I even watched The Last Song. And I am glad that I did because I had no idea you were capable of actually speaking in a normal, inside, voice. Who knew. I also think you should stick with Liam Helmsworth (or whatever his name is). Not only is he super hot, he also has an accent, which makes him double sexy.
It would also be nice if you made up with Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez. They seem like such nice girls. It would be great if you started a rock band with them and sang wholesome, family friendly songs. Maybe you could let them try on your Hannah Montana wig. Be careful if you do though. Sharing wigs can spread lice and can lead to pregnancy. I'm not 100% sure about it, but as a precaution, you should wear a skull cap.
On a different note: I am very concerned about your costumes because you seem to be wearing less and less clothing. I know the economy is bad, but I would be happy to donate what I can so you can afford the second half of your skirt. And P.S. Underwear is meant to be worn UNDER your clothing. It makes sense when you think about it. Corsets do look sexy (not to mention the fact that they are an antiquated form of torture) but the whole sado-masichism look is giving Disney a bad name.
I suppose by now you are a gajillionaire. Totally impressed. My first job netted me a cool $5.15/hr and I spent 8 hours each work day up to my pits in grease and chicken nuggets. At least I got a great discount on food and all the free soda I could drink - not to mention the horrific acne that resulted from excessive exposure to liquid animal fat, the burn scars on my forearms from grilling class D burger meat and the fact that I smelled like french fries for the entire seventh months I worked there (and no amount of scrubbing could relieve that stench).
It was all worth it when I received my first paycheck for $86.32 after taxes - I felt like I'd hit the jackpot. In fact, I bought a whole 6-pack of Dr. Pepper at the Piggly Wiggly to celebrate the occassion. Of course, I didn't have to deal with the Paparazzi. But, then again, I also didn't get my own trailer or personal trainer. I guess there are always trade-offs.
No, I am not jealous that you were named one of the most influential Hollywood celebrities before you could vote or stay up past 10 pm on a school night. In fact, I am relieved that honor wasn't bestowed on LiLo(who I will also write to once I can obtain the address of her current jail). I just hope you continue to keep your nose clean and tell your dad to get a hair cut and stop dressing like your boyfriend. He's what, 70 now?? (Your dad, not your BF.) And if you could get him to shave off his lower lip hair, that would be great too. He looks like he was eating chocolate pudding and missed his mouth.
That is all. Have a nice day!
-Pokey
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Who Am I?
Who am I?
I came from a magical land far, far away where soccer is football and a Queen is a woman.
I longed to marry Prince William for all the wrong reasons – I thought I actually loved him.
I speak English, I read and write German, and I talk to myself in a language all my own.
I am who I am, a walking, talking contradiction – but aren’t we all at every stage.
I admire Bridget Jones – but I pray I am not 30, single and miserable - unless I also live in London.
I love the law, but I can’t stand lawyers – ironic that I will be one soon.
I hope with all my heart that God will Bless America – and bless me to move back to Europe.
I know, deep down, I am jealous of me, but I absolutely refuse to admit that to myself.
I think not that superficiality bespeaks a poor character – if we were all philosophers, there’d be no opinions.
I believe that life should be embraced – that death must not be feared – and that chocolate should be eaten every day.
I understand myself to be a realist, but only when I am not dreaming.
I was once asked at a dance if I knew it took two to tango – I then introduced him to my imaginary friend.
I came, I longed, I speak, I am.
I admire, I love, I hope, I know.
I think, I believe, I understand, I was.
Here I am now, and
I would really like a job.
So somebody please save me from my misery.
Thank you.
I came from a magical land far, far away where soccer is football and a Queen is a woman.
I longed to marry Prince William for all the wrong reasons – I thought I actually loved him.
I speak English, I read and write German, and I talk to myself in a language all my own.
I am who I am, a walking, talking contradiction – but aren’t we all at every stage.
I admire Bridget Jones – but I pray I am not 30, single and miserable - unless I also live in London.
I love the law, but I can’t stand lawyers – ironic that I will be one soon.
I hope with all my heart that God will Bless America – and bless me to move back to Europe.
I know, deep down, I am jealous of me, but I absolutely refuse to admit that to myself.
I think not that superficiality bespeaks a poor character – if we were all philosophers, there’d be no opinions.
I believe that life should be embraced – that death must not be feared – and that chocolate should be eaten every day.
I understand myself to be a realist, but only when I am not dreaming.
I was once asked at a dance if I knew it took two to tango – I then introduced him to my imaginary friend.
I came, I longed, I speak, I am.
I admire, I love, I hope, I know.
I think, I believe, I understand, I was.
Here I am now, and
I would really like a job.
So somebody please save me from my misery.
Thank you.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Legal Cover Letter
Dewey, Cheatham & Howe
Attorney Recruitment Department
1111 East Main Street, Suite 1500
Richmond, VA 23218
August 12, 2010
Re: Application for Associate Attorney Position
To Whom It May Concern:
It is not often that one is presented with a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Today is that day for you. I am happy to present myself as the next great associate attorney at Dewey Cheatham and Howe. I am the diamond in the rough–the future Pro-Bowl quarterback undrafted until the fourth round–a sophisticated legal robot sent back through time to change the future for one lucky law firm. As a recent honor graduate of UNC School of Law, I am poised to begin my meteoric career with your firm. Not only will you find my stats superb across the board, I also come with a work ethic that is only surpassed by the family Formicidae (or ants for the lay person) and a skill set that would make all other candidates for this position blush. I hope you read on and I hope you seize this opportunity because Pokey does not come knocking twice.
If you want someone who is truly committed, then I am the right candidate for the job. Many out-of-work attorneys will claim that they do not mind working long hours for little or no recognition; however, these ne’er-do-wells are likely desperate and willing to say whatever they feel is necessary to land the paycheck. In three years they will be gone, claiming that they can no longer endure the billable hours your firm requires insofar as it is affecting their health and family life. How am I different? To start with, I am a bona-fide over-achiever and have not had or cared to have a real “weekend” since 1997 when I started my first job as the Saturday opening crew at McDonald’s. Secondly, I haven’t been sick in over seven years. I shun hand sanitizer and ate enough dirt as a child to build up all the immunities I need to live to be 120. Finally, I am a glorified bachelorette and thank God that women’s lib has made it socially acceptable for me to be married to my job without having to join a convent.
As far as my skills are concerned, your firm will greatly benefit from my employment. Not only am I highly intelligent and capable to perform sophisticated legal work, I will also do your research, get your coffee, bill your hours, pick up your dry cleaning, babysit your children and give up my holidays to prepare your memos all with a smile on my face and while whistling a variety of tunes from pre-1970 Disney cartoon classics. Furthermore, if that is not enough to procure me an offer on the spot, I am somewhat of a MacGuyver behind the desk: Give me a paperclip, a piece of paper and a LexisNexis account and I can save the world.
Thank you for your consideration of my application. I look forward to discussing with you my future position at Dewey Cheatham and Howe.
Sincerely,
Pokey, J.D.
A.K.A. Justice Girl
Attorney Recruitment Department
1111 East Main Street, Suite 1500
Richmond, VA 23218
August 12, 2010
Re: Application for Associate Attorney Position
To Whom It May Concern:
It is not often that one is presented with a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Today is that day for you. I am happy to present myself as the next great associate attorney at Dewey Cheatham and Howe. I am the diamond in the rough–the future Pro-Bowl quarterback undrafted until the fourth round–a sophisticated legal robot sent back through time to change the future for one lucky law firm. As a recent honor graduate of UNC School of Law, I am poised to begin my meteoric career with your firm. Not only will you find my stats superb across the board, I also come with a work ethic that is only surpassed by the family Formicidae (or ants for the lay person) and a skill set that would make all other candidates for this position blush. I hope you read on and I hope you seize this opportunity because Pokey does not come knocking twice.
If you want someone who is truly committed, then I am the right candidate for the job. Many out-of-work attorneys will claim that they do not mind working long hours for little or no recognition; however, these ne’er-do-wells are likely desperate and willing to say whatever they feel is necessary to land the paycheck. In three years they will be gone, claiming that they can no longer endure the billable hours your firm requires insofar as it is affecting their health and family life. How am I different? To start with, I am a bona-fide over-achiever and have not had or cared to have a real “weekend” since 1997 when I started my first job as the Saturday opening crew at McDonald’s. Secondly, I haven’t been sick in over seven years. I shun hand sanitizer and ate enough dirt as a child to build up all the immunities I need to live to be 120. Finally, I am a glorified bachelorette and thank God that women’s lib has made it socially acceptable for me to be married to my job without having to join a convent.
As far as my skills are concerned, your firm will greatly benefit from my employment. Not only am I highly intelligent and capable to perform sophisticated legal work, I will also do your research, get your coffee, bill your hours, pick up your dry cleaning, babysit your children and give up my holidays to prepare your memos all with a smile on my face and while whistling a variety of tunes from pre-1970 Disney cartoon classics. Furthermore, if that is not enough to procure me an offer on the spot, I am somewhat of a MacGuyver behind the desk: Give me a paperclip, a piece of paper and a LexisNexis account and I can save the world.
Thank you for your consideration of my application. I look forward to discussing with you my future position at Dewey Cheatham and Howe.
Sincerely,
Pokey, J.D.
A.K.A. Justice Girl
Dear Delilah
Dear Delilah,
How are you? I am good. Things are tough here these days. Papa lost his little finger in a tragic accident involving a pint of whiskey, a rubber band and a hacksaw, Mama lost in the pie baking contest to Janet Friedelhorn – she thinks it’s a jewish conspiracy against the righteous Christians (“But never you mind,” she told me, “They’ll get what’s coming to them in the end on Judgment Day.”), to make Mama feel better, Sally Jo ate the entire prune pie in one sitting and done spent the next 3 days locked in the outhouse – none of us could use it for a week afterwards, and John-Boy ran off with that whore Daisy-May.
Other than that, I am doing well. I am writing slow cuz I know you don’t read fast.
Next week is the big dance at the Town Hall to celebrate the 150 year anniversary of the day our Founder, Big Willy Johnson, got lost on his way to Topeka. He’d had a little too much Peach Moonshine and passed out at the site of the town hall. It didn’t help none that the horse he’d thought he’d stolen at the saloon –turned out to be the fat daughter of the owner. she refused to go any farther and they got married and had 10 chillens.
I am excited about the dance. I think I’ll let Jim Smallsack take me. He came round to the house just last month to eat Mama’s county-fried chicken dinner. Of course, he ain’t been round since, but none of us could leave the bed for a spell after eating Mama’s country-fried chicken anyhow. I think he still likes me cuz he done told Mary Katherine Bigteethsmallface that he thought I was super swell. I think I’ll wear my red dress and stockings. I have a bunion on my right foot that looks awful bad, but I can wear closed toed shoes to cover that up. I just hope it don’t mess with my dancing.
The farm is doing well. We got 3 chickens, but two of them don’t lay no eggs. The third only lays egg whites. But Papa says that ain’t bad cuz we’ll all have lower cholesterol in the end. We planted tomatoes and lima beans and pineapple. Before he done run off with that whore Daisy-May, John Boy told Papa that Pineapple don’t grow here. We ain’t seen none yet, but Papa goes out every day to talk the Pineapple into growing so he can mail one to John Boy when we find out where he done run off to. I thought I’d done seen a sprout last week, but it turned out to be a marijuana plant. So I smoked it up and then went and ate an entire Mama’s Prune Pie myself. That is the last time I will ever do that.
Well, girl. I miss you real big. When you get back home we'll go out to the cemetery and become blood sisters again. I ain't felt right since I done disowned you after I catched you kissin' on Jethro Gumsmacker in the fourth grade. If I'd known that'd be his last year in school it would've mattered as much as a fly on horse shit.
Hope to hear from you soon.
Love,
Pokey
How are you? I am good. Things are tough here these days. Papa lost his little finger in a tragic accident involving a pint of whiskey, a rubber band and a hacksaw, Mama lost in the pie baking contest to Janet Friedelhorn – she thinks it’s a jewish conspiracy against the righteous Christians (“But never you mind,” she told me, “They’ll get what’s coming to them in the end on Judgment Day.”), to make Mama feel better, Sally Jo ate the entire prune pie in one sitting and done spent the next 3 days locked in the outhouse – none of us could use it for a week afterwards, and John-Boy ran off with that whore Daisy-May.
Other than that, I am doing well. I am writing slow cuz I know you don’t read fast.
Next week is the big dance at the Town Hall to celebrate the 150 year anniversary of the day our Founder, Big Willy Johnson, got lost on his way to Topeka. He’d had a little too much Peach Moonshine and passed out at the site of the town hall. It didn’t help none that the horse he’d thought he’d stolen at the saloon –turned out to be the fat daughter of the owner. she refused to go any farther and they got married and had 10 chillens.
I am excited about the dance. I think I’ll let Jim Smallsack take me. He came round to the house just last month to eat Mama’s county-fried chicken dinner. Of course, he ain’t been round since, but none of us could leave the bed for a spell after eating Mama’s country-fried chicken anyhow. I think he still likes me cuz he done told Mary Katherine Bigteethsmallface that he thought I was super swell. I think I’ll wear my red dress and stockings. I have a bunion on my right foot that looks awful bad, but I can wear closed toed shoes to cover that up. I just hope it don’t mess with my dancing.
The farm is doing well. We got 3 chickens, but two of them don’t lay no eggs. The third only lays egg whites. But Papa says that ain’t bad cuz we’ll all have lower cholesterol in the end. We planted tomatoes and lima beans and pineapple. Before he done run off with that whore Daisy-May, John Boy told Papa that Pineapple don’t grow here. We ain’t seen none yet, but Papa goes out every day to talk the Pineapple into growing so he can mail one to John Boy when we find out where he done run off to. I thought I’d done seen a sprout last week, but it turned out to be a marijuana plant. So I smoked it up and then went and ate an entire Mama’s Prune Pie myself. That is the last time I will ever do that.
Well, girl. I miss you real big. When you get back home we'll go out to the cemetery and become blood sisters again. I ain't felt right since I done disowned you after I catched you kissin' on Jethro Gumsmacker in the fourth grade. If I'd known that'd be his last year in school it would've mattered as much as a fly on horse shit.
Hope to hear from you soon.
Love,
Pokey
Thursday, September 9, 2010
A History of Myself by Me Part 2
Rewinding to the 'yada' part of my original March 2010 post, aptly titled A History of Myself by Me Part 1, I thought I should refrain from such further ambiguity and provide a few more details of my past. In this installment, I will explain how I created the lottery. Yes, the Powerball, the Mega Millions, the enticing scratchers!! I created them. And here is how:
This one day when I was 12, I was walking home from school. I didn't have shoes back then because all the leather was confiscated by the government in an effort to resolve the tension between freedom of religion and Sado-Masichism. So I was walking - and it was up hill both ways because the world was flat and rested on a fulcrum, which is a fancy schmanzy word for an upside down triangle. I like using fancy words to show how smart I am - and because I also like dictionary.com. But, I digress. At any rate, don't believe the hype. Ol' Chris Columbus didn't discover the world was round. It didn't become round until the start of the Oprah Winfrey Show in the 1980's (for reasons that are still highly classified).
Anyways, while walking I came upon a magical elf who first accused me of stealing all his lucky charms. I told him that was impossible as my parents refused to purchase sugary cereals and I much preferred the prizes at the bottom of Honey Nut Cheerios packages instead. After hearing this, he felt bad and told me he'd grant me 2 wishes. I asked why not 3. But he said that would be greedy and that the whole 3 wish thing was a major falsehood perpetuated by the Media and Disney's Aladin. It had always been 2.
I thought about it and for my first wish, I wished for all of America's wealth. The Elf laughed and asked me if I was sure...I said of course and he granted my wish. Turns out, America isn't really wealthy...So now, after 7 years of college, I do, indeed, possess a large portion of the national debt.
So I thought I'd try again. This time I asked for 100 million dollars. Again, I blundered. You see, the elf, well, he was a socialist elf, borderline communist and couldn't, in good conscience, grant my wish as such. He proposed, instead, to create a lottery so that everyone would have a fair shot and convenience stores would still get business once gas pumps all become pre-pay with card.
Seeing the logic in his proposal, I agreed. And that, my friends, is how I single handedly created the lottery. You're welcome. And for all of you out there who claim that the lottery is responsible for the deterioration of societal values and for the creation of gambling addiction and for taking the money out of the pockets of hard-working unemployed people dreaming of the fast road to abundant wealth with the least amount of pit stops along the way: You are welcome, too. What good is moral superiority without something to complain about?
This one day when I was 12, I was walking home from school. I didn't have shoes back then because all the leather was confiscated by the government in an effort to resolve the tension between freedom of religion and Sado-Masichism. So I was walking - and it was up hill both ways because the world was flat and rested on a fulcrum, which is a fancy schmanzy word for an upside down triangle. I like using fancy words to show how smart I am - and because I also like dictionary.com. But, I digress. At any rate, don't believe the hype. Ol' Chris Columbus didn't discover the world was round. It didn't become round until the start of the Oprah Winfrey Show in the 1980's (for reasons that are still highly classified).
Anyways, while walking I came upon a magical elf who first accused me of stealing all his lucky charms. I told him that was impossible as my parents refused to purchase sugary cereals and I much preferred the prizes at the bottom of Honey Nut Cheerios packages instead. After hearing this, he felt bad and told me he'd grant me 2 wishes. I asked why not 3. But he said that would be greedy and that the whole 3 wish thing was a major falsehood perpetuated by the Media and Disney's Aladin. It had always been 2.
I thought about it and for my first wish, I wished for all of America's wealth. The Elf laughed and asked me if I was sure...I said of course and he granted my wish. Turns out, America isn't really wealthy...So now, after 7 years of college, I do, indeed, possess a large portion of the national debt.
So I thought I'd try again. This time I asked for 100 million dollars. Again, I blundered. You see, the elf, well, he was a socialist elf, borderline communist and couldn't, in good conscience, grant my wish as such. He proposed, instead, to create a lottery so that everyone would have a fair shot and convenience stores would still get business once gas pumps all become pre-pay with card.
Seeing the logic in his proposal, I agreed. And that, my friends, is how I single handedly created the lottery. You're welcome. And for all of you out there who claim that the lottery is responsible for the deterioration of societal values and for the creation of gambling addiction and for taking the money out of the pockets of hard-working unemployed people dreaming of the fast road to abundant wealth with the least amount of pit stops along the way: You are welcome, too. What good is moral superiority without something to complain about?
Fe fi fo fum. Job searching is no fun!!
I am CENSORED years old, a graduate of TWO (not ONE) BUT TWO (that is more) national universities with B.A.s in German and Political Science and a J.D. I speak fluent German and English, I have lived in four countries and have dual citizenship, etc. etc. Basically, I am pretty awesome.
The trouble is, I am all these things and I can't find a job to save my life or my credit score. I could blame the recession. I could blame the current administration for not curbing this recession. I could even blame my universities for drawing me to them with such statistics as "99.9% of our graduates have found employment within 6 months of graduation." Who knew I would be the .1% who hasn't. Tis a cross I bear and my arms hurt. Simon, think you'd take it up for a bit while I grab a drink or 20?
No, I am not going to fall into the blame/pessimistic/reality trap! There's always the lottery. Besides, who has time for sulking. I have a job to find and an unemployment benefits application to fill out.
If I am going to blame anyone, I will have much more success in blaming the elephants. Yes, that's right. I am going to blame elephants. Those large, gray trunk-bearing beasts are the cause of my current misery. They waltz around Africa or the Zoo or the Circus with their big ears and bad memories and forget (hence the memory-lapse) that the rest of us are suffering in this current economic climate. They are so smug. Those of them who are productive members of society (quote-unquote) have set a horrible precedent: They work for peanuts. Big business has caught on to their scheme. What this means is that prospective employers won't hire anyone who has the audacity to demand recompense in any monetary form. "What's good enough for the elephants..." They always say.
Well, you know what I have to say to that: YOU TRY DEPOSITING PEANUTS INTO THE ATM AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!! You try paying your car payment or calling your credit card company and offering, in lieu of the minimum payment, 200 of the finest peanuts the Ringling Brothers has to offer. Quatsch. Bologna.
Peanuts. Stupid elephants. You are smelly and your pregnancies last 22 months. You've ruined my life.
I am CENSORED years old, a graduate of TWO (not ONE) BUT TWO (that is more) national universities with B.A.s in German and Political Science and a J.D. I speak fluent German and English, I have lived in four countries and have dual citizenship, etc. etc. Basically, I am pretty awesome.
The trouble is, I am all these things and I can't find a job to save my life or my credit score. I could blame the recession. I could blame the current administration for not curbing this recession. I could even blame my universities for drawing me to them with such statistics as "99.9% of our graduates have found employment within 6 months of graduation." Who knew I would be the .1% who hasn't. Tis a cross I bear and my arms hurt. Simon, think you'd take it up for a bit while I grab a drink or 20?
No, I am not going to fall into the blame/pessimistic/reality trap! There's always the lottery. Besides, who has time for sulking. I have a job to find and an unemployment benefits application to fill out.
If I am going to blame anyone, I will have much more success in blaming the elephants. Yes, that's right. I am going to blame elephants. Those large, gray trunk-bearing beasts are the cause of my current misery. They waltz around Africa or the Zoo or the Circus with their big ears and bad memories and forget (hence the memory-lapse) that the rest of us are suffering in this current economic climate. They are so smug. Those of them who are productive members of society (quote-unquote) have set a horrible precedent: They work for peanuts. Big business has caught on to their scheme. What this means is that prospective employers won't hire anyone who has the audacity to demand recompense in any monetary form. "What's good enough for the elephants..." They always say.
Well, you know what I have to say to that: YOU TRY DEPOSITING PEANUTS INTO THE ATM AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!! You try paying your car payment or calling your credit card company and offering, in lieu of the minimum payment, 200 of the finest peanuts the Ringling Brothers has to offer. Quatsch. Bologna.
Peanuts. Stupid elephants. You are smelly and your pregnancies last 22 months. You've ruined my life.
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