Insectisauce
An obsequious guru seeks some sauce in kitchen stadium. ALLEZ CUISINE!!!
As I write this I have butterflies in my stomach…
It is time to regale a simple tale born hatched of humble beginnings. A tale years in the making. It’s a tale that will turn your stomach. And it is one that must never, ever be told. So keep reading. You’ll be glad you did.
Two drosophila walk into a bar. The bartender asks, “What’ll you have?” One points at the other and says, “Ask him. He’s supposed to be the genus.”
–Tom B. Taker
For once I will set aside petty narcissism and histrionics. The tale is too damn important. It must not be tarnished by cheap tricks or overt grabs at drama. So the telling will be without hyperbole. It will be simply told. I want this post to stand the test of time so future generations thousands of years from now will truly appreciate the moment and say things like, “That shit is fucked up. Can this even be real?”
Come. Let us retire to the Puparium and I will tell the tale anon.
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Great Moments in Employment History: Christmas Cheer!
This is another piece in our ongoing series, Great Moments in Employment History. These are true stories from your guru’s personal resume. We hope you enjoy.
It was Christmastime not quite 10 years ago. I had left the big city and the rat race for the quiet life in Small Town, USA. On Sept. 11, 2001, I accepted my first job offer in my new digs. It was the inauspicious beginning to the final chapter of my so-called life or what I like to call “The Decade of Despair,” a fitting exclamation point on a moderately successful career. (Yes, I used to be somebody.)
My new position was appropriate to my new home town. To put it inelegantly, my actual job title was as mythical as a unicorn farting out rainbows. My job was “whore.” (Which I define as doing what you hate for money.)
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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