Garden Party

I went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn’t look the same
But it’s all right now, I learned my lesson well
You see, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself

–Ricky Nelson

Let’s just say that I’m not the most social wildebeest in the herd. Ya think? So when an invitation comes my way it’s a big, big decision. A really big decision. Monumental. Did I mention yet that it is big?

Of course I don’t want to go. That’s a given. That part is never open to debate. The only question is should I go? Put in an appearance, as it were. My normal procedure, if I go at all, is to keep it as brief as possible before doing The Slink.

For argument’s sake, let’s say the decision has been made. (It could happen.) What then?

The Slink is my trademark move. One minute I’m there and then. Poof. Hey! Has anyone seen Tom in a while?

I don’t believe in goodbyes at parties. It creates a commotion, focuses undue attention (I’m not a narcissist in real life) and can take 90 minutes or more. The Slink is the much preferable option.

But before I could activate the magical powers of The Slink something else happened. Something very untoward. Of course, great umbrage and acrimony was involved. Curious? Well load up the fucking Facebook. I’m sure you can read all about it.

Regurgitation: Special Kibble

What could be better for Regurgitation Sundays than a post about food? Perfect. It’s a match made in heaven. Dare I even say it? Special.

It was exactly over three years ago today (give or take a few months) that I wrote a sublime piece about how “specials” work in restaurants. Today I’m giving out a free “upgrade,” a side serving of regurgitation. You only have to provide your own sour cream, chives and bacon. As always, I bring the butter.

In a rare and provocative behind-the-scenes glimpse of how this blog works (I’ll be brief) you should know that not all of my posts are carefully planned and storyboarded months in advance. Not all of them. Sometimes they are knee-jerk reactions to last-minute things. I really should have a category called “Oh Shit.”

Take last night for example. My wife and I went out to eat. Mainly because our kitchen was destroyed by the act of packing for the big move. As we walked into the place the “specials” board caught our eye. We paused and gave it the once over.

“Hmm,” my wife said. “They have a carrot salad for $8. That sounds good.”

Whatever, crazy person. Good for their bank account, maybe.

Once seated I was perusing the menu without much success when I heard my wife say, “Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking up and suddenly terrified.

Busy Does a Bossy Good

The boss is a very, very busy man. We know this because he takes hours out of his day to tell us all about it.

Tom,

WIDGET-424242 Premium has the wrong color listed.

It should be “Brown”

Please correct both color attributes and the name.

thanks,

Marquis

Note the subtle capitalization and punctuation errors. Like a boss!

I should be used to this by now. But still I sat there, stunned, staring at his email on my screen. He could have sent a shorter email. “Widget 424242 wrong color. Thanks.” But he didn’t.

I thought about hitting “reply” and asking a simple question: “Will there ever come a day when you don’t feel the need to include that extraneous sentence at the end?” I heard it can be beneficial to dream. Well, I have my dreams, too.

He went ahead and listed the correct color, even though I could have figured that out on my own. Maybe we can give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just trying to be helpful. He saved me the bother of having to look it up in the catalog.

But WTF is up with that next sentence? He just told me the color was “wrong.” I know what that means. It has to be fixed. If I really strained my brain cells enough I might even be able to extrapolate, like an Eistein smartypants, what should happen next. We have to correct the wrong information on the website! Am I right, am I right, Alex Trebec? What do I win?

Luckily, though, the boss is ever vigilant and at the ready to provide more than enough information. Apparently he thinks we’re so damn stupid we won’t know to wipe our own asses unless he’s there to point out the obvious. “And use toilet paper next time!” That might also explain why he walks into occupied bathrooms without the courtesy of knocking first. It’s because he’s so damn smarter than us idiots. No doubt that’s why he hired us.

“You going to send that letter in the mail? You’ll have to put on a postage stamp. The post office won’t deliver it without one.” Are you fucking shitting me? (And, for the record, I’m not making this up. This is an actual verbatim from the boss to me.)

I can’t help but wonder. What if the boss was in charge of other stuff? What would that look like?

Resignates Man

“Are you not intertwined?” shouted the gladiator. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “What we do at our job resignates in eternity.”

Yeah, it does feel that way sometimes. Luckily my craft doesn’t rely too heavily on proper grammar and fancy so-called “dictionary” words. Hey, just like my blog.

Yes, I’ve called this mandatory staff meeting to discuss resignation origami. (See inset picture.) In the spirit of multitasking this is also my ode to the Pope. To ensure professionalism at all times I hired Phil Mickelson as a consultant.

My research indicates that when it comes to quitting a job there are a few factors that are (allegedly) paramount:

• Give two weeks notice, more if possible
• Don’t burn your bridges
• Write a letter of resignation
• Be respectful
• Be diplomatic
• Be tactful
• Stay professional
• Offer to help

In other words, try to hold yourself to a standard higher than your employer ever showed you. Shit always flows downhill. Apparently, when quitting, the reverse is also true. Gold nuggets are supposed to defy gravity.

Ugh.

But, even so, behold the awesome power of a properly wielded Letter of Resignation (LoR) which automatically confers +7 intelligence and enhanced saving rolls.

More of my observations on this bit of arcane power will magically appear after the jump.

He Tasks Me

I give the orders around here.

This post is dedicated to The Boss whoever it* may be. Ed.

It happened on a work day. (Holy fuck. Is that the scariest opening ever or what?)

It was the arrival of a package that prompted the fun. The boss stopped everything he was doing. Ooh, a package had arrived.

Must. Open. Now.

His fleshy, grubby and unwashed digits picked up the box and it rotated in his massive NFL-style steroid-induced mitts. A piece of gooey food substance jiggled in his beard as he moved.

“Oh look,” he said. “I got something for you.”

Inside? You guessed it. New business cards for my department, the department where he always claimed I was in charge and had autonomy.

The cards were emblazoned with his name. Not mine. And underneath, the business title was printed. “Manager.”

Indeed.

Some time later he indicated with an explosion of gas that he had a “task” for me.

All hail the task!

Loving What You Regurgitate

Another Regurgitation Sunday is upon us. Time for me to reach deep into the annals of blog history and dig out another piece of poop. I do hope I spelled that correctly.

This morning whilst searching the internet for a motivational quote related to the word “ascribing” I came across the following nugget of joy:

Naturally that reminded me of the good old days back in November 2009 when I wrote a steaming piece of shit entitled: Thoughts on “loving what you do”

Those were good times so that instantly became today’s pick of the kitty litter. I’m not one to stare down the barrel of coincidence and blink. I’m not about to ignore the fates that brought this piece of digital flotsam my way.

If you will allow me the temporary hubris of paraphrasing Steve Jobs:

The only way to produce great shits is to shit what you shit. And have a shit boss in position of authority above you.
–Tom B. Taker

Unless you love what you do, please click the following link to be transported to the magical land of yesterlore.

Regurgitated: Thoughts on “loving what you do”

Tiger Tails

I think it’s safe to say my photoshop skills peaked way back in the day.

Oh there’s a Tiger gettin’ tail it’s plain to see!
It costs a lot when he’s playin’ through the green
Well he just can’t wait like a shopper at a sale
Looks like The Tiger is gettin’ lots of tail

Look. I’ll be honest with you. I know exactly how Lindsey Vonn feels. I’ve also been medevaced via a snowmobile off a snow-covered mountain after a heart wrenching ski crash. I’m assuming that’s what it feels like to know Tiger Woods.

Today we pay tribute to our long-time bloggy friend, the sport of golf, and, of course, the concept of winning.