What a Lazy Sow

[Morphemically misleading as it may seem, "revolution" fails to imply that the world "revolves around you."]




Heard in the office this morning:

"[Co-worker's Name], would you trade jobs with me?"
"No thanks. Oh, wait. Just for today?"
"Yeah. And then you can answer the nine emails I got this morning."
"Oh." Walks away confused.

Who bitches about having to answer nine emails? Probably the same lazy sow that spends every day all fucking week telling the new hires how to write a 300 word market report. S/he couldn't work his/er way out of a paper/lastic bag/sack.

Kelly Kapur, con't.

[No door is too spangled for the Door Gym.]









OK Kelly, you're back in my life. You like the Door Gym? One of our friends used the Door Gym to great effect. We absolutely love doing pullups, too. There seems to be a theme of upper-body enthusiasm. Maybe the Times would write a trend piece. But really. Ok; you're not dead to us anymore for your seeming marginalization of 3rd World Workers. (But, you know, your people... offshoring... etc, you know, right?) Unfortunately, after reading your blog all day, we found, like, $1203934323's worth of gifts for our girlfriend, none of which cost less than $3.23, which is how much our bank account has.

Anyway, bringing Kelly Kapur back into our lives isn't the reason for this post. The reason is because of this most excellent review on Door Gym's amazon page. Most excellent. "Well, you don't. It's just a bonus" should be the catch phrase of the year. ("But why do I need to strip naked and roll around in the honey?" "Well, you don't. It's just a bonus.")

This is a pull-up bar. If you want to do pull-ups it is the best solution for your home. Put up and take down in seconds with no tools. Comfy foam padding, sturdy design. Some assembly required.

As a bonus you can also use the thing as a push-up bar. You may ask why you'd need a push-up bar when you have a floor. Well, you don't. It's just a bonus.

Kelly Kapur is no Lebron James, but still!

Associative Chain:

Office Season 3 Finale; Bittorented Office remaining episodes Season 3; Lost Sucks, not as good as the Office; Boss calls come to Office!; Work; Read The Morning News for years; Read it at Work; Best Websites, yay!; Link to Blog, Office; Work at Office, watch Office, hmm; Office, buy stuff; Look on eBay; blog buy stuff about buy stuff; find stuff on eBay; Wish there were an American Apparel; Also, used music equipment store, box of money; Office work; coffee, too much?; Office, office; work work; work = office sometimes when work doesnt = Office; Office = office, or Office = Office, sometimes, too; "Office" funny word, sounds like "orifice," doesn't it?; crazy...; Lebron supports genocide, hmm; Hope the Cavs win; Time for some pretzels; Programmable distortion pedal; sell power soak for ~$140, like yeah!; maybe buy a new pedal; office... Office; Think about Office; read Office blog; blog; OMG SWEATSHOPS LIEK WTF!!!?>!?!! OMGH STUFU!!!!!

Forever 21 is a total mess always, with kind of vacant, unhelpful teenage girls working there, but there are gems everywhere. It's also disgustingly cheap. Like cheaper than H&M. Like so cheap you kind of wish they charged more cuz you're like "Ew, why is this so cheap, what's wrong with it?". But then you realize it's probably South East Asian laborers making everything and it costs a tenth of a cent to produce and you see how you're cashing in on the best deal in town! (don't think about this stuff too much though, you'll start feeling guilty for the poor people, in like, Macau or wherever sewing together a knit jumper so you can own it for 17 bucks).

Kelly Kapur, you are dead to us. Spicy Curry Award recipient indeed.

We got nothing Today

Feeling like an elegy, but we don't even know what that would mean--we call bullshit!--and it's not even our fault because elegies are things you learn about in 11th grade English class and we were drooling and napping. Not banging on desks. We were going to write a post about the soft, nameless loss that comes with familiarity--that is, the loss that Ford M. Ford describes in the Good Soldier: that the moment you know someone you cease to know him because you know your image of him, not him himself--this loss we feel sometimes in our commerce with other people.








But then we just got thinking about commerce and how we got a promotion, and how these summer days have ended before they began; we won't have time to screw around at work anymore, we'll be busy really doing work, etc. Our chest hurts and we don't feel like eating, smoking, sleeping, or fucking.






Finally, we thought about how we'd like to be back in a place where we can listen to music all day, and this isn't that place; but we'll be making more money here than we have ever in our short recorded and unrecorded history made. And we wanted to try to write like Faulkner, but of course we're writing like Faulkner on a weblog, and so, we're writing like Faulkner on a weblog. Duh.







And past finality, we decided just to post pictures of google images, and to try not to split our infinitives.













(And we're incredibly bowled over by this (we don't know why): that one of our coworkers is so stupid, she is so so stupid that she can't make a pot of coffee without blowing a fuse, fucking up the coffee pot, and ending up with shitty brown water and grounds all over the floor--she is so stupid--and now she's an editor and part-office manager; and she doesn't know how to form proper sentences, or how to read for comprehension, so she has to check with another editor every two-and-a-half minutes to see if her first impulse, which she must suspect is just as stupid as she can't even begin to suspect is is, is right--which it isn't--and then the other editor has to edit verbally through her like a retarded, down syndromed medium, the type of spirit from whom you would not seek to elicit any advice, information, or spiritual guidance because it would tell you to walk through a fucking wall, that the Red Sox would win the world series by 1925, and that the fucking Klingons would have landed by the time in which you ask so don't bother, that stupid woman is also our part-office manager,




who is responsible for buying office supplies like chips, soda, coffee, etc. And we expect with no amount of irony for her to return with rocks, used car parts, topsoil, ANYTHING but food, because she's too dumb even to identify what is and what is not food. A dog could do that. We don't think she could. Every time she asks a stupid question we long for the near silence of keys being pressed and depressed, the fax making barely audible beeps, and phone conversations from a few doors away: the sounds that drive us batshit crazy. Being batshit crazy would be a better mode of being than the mode of being that calls for us to listen to her stupid questions.)