a conversation in regards to guestbook entry 359 (see below)
chris says:
what's up
james says:
nothin holmes (notice I referred to you with holmes as in John Holmes) by the way, this amber. Mr. Spillane is on the throne.
chris says:
amber?
chris says:
is this amber?
james says:
the one and only
chris says:
pancake
james says:
fuck off
james says:
I am supreme snowboarder numero uno now
james says:
beware the sparks flying off the back of my board, I would hate for you to get a little boo boo.
chris says:
pancake
james says:
I can see this is going nowhere. I am a bartender now, the pancake days are over. Before I was more hobo status (as I have previously explained) now I have been promoted to a self reliant servant.
chris says:
I just say that because you burned me so bad
chris says:
so I take the good thing you do, and it was good
chris says:
and spoon it down your throat
chris says:
so I say “pancake”
chris says:
from my cubicle
chris says:
in issaquah
james says:
I always think of you when I see those Microsoft Office commercials, you know, the one where some geeky guy does something super terrific to improve the company and then all these other geeks dump water over his head from the cooler and commence doing the padawan geek dance you all must have learned at Microsoft orientation day. The reverse of that is what happens at my job when I do something super terrific. There, we all jump out of our bar stools and spray down the surface of the bar for doing air craft carrier landings across on our bare bellies.
chris says:
that is hot!
james says:
yeah I know
james says:
mine is a distant world from yours and yet we manage to bridge the gap for the sake of our natural comedic twin souls.
chris says:
that is the nicest thing you have ever said to me.
chris says:
besides 'wow that's a big TV'
james says:
yeah yeah, now get back to work, stumpy (can I call you that?) I've got a sequined halter top to squeeze into before work. Peace.
THE PART WHERE YOU SEE DOWN BELOW:
chris, I don't "make" the pancakes, I merely deliver. I am in fact, below the pancake maker in the cast of service industry personnel. Right next to dishwasher and illegal immigrant farm hand. To give you a meter as to the total irrelavance of my productivity in the human spectrum, here is a list of other jobs (as unworthy as my own), to which I could possibly do a "lateral tranfer" to in the future should the "pancake delivery service" not work out:
Bathroom attendant at your favorite yuppy resteraunt "The Mongolian Grill".
Hooters girl to entertain you on your "guys night out from the old ball and chain, lets get only marginally drunk and watch football until oh, say six o'clock cause the misses might get upset if we stay out any longer rehashing our, what used to be, exciting bachelor lives of reckless abandon and casual sex.
Meter maid with a grudge against SUV's and liscence plates from suburbial shengrala.
Schwann foods delivery driver to bring your loved ones those weekly frozen dinner specials for "Family Yatzee" friday nights.
Seven eleven cashier for daddy's funny smelling cokes on said family nights.
Catering assistant at Microsoft's annual "come out and show off your matching styles while desperately seeking individuality accompanied by approval from your cubical leaders" (see bathroom attendant for brown nose removal at the Mongolian grill afterparty)
City Coroner's attendant to watch over your early departed body at the mortuary after massive stroke induced by eating too much MSG, having too little sex with too few women, and a wicked staff infection from sucking so much corporate ass.
(You'll just have to enjoy that new Hummer in heaven my friend.)
And of course lets not forget prostitution. But that's just not an option for me. I could never bring myself to sell out like THAT! Geez, I'd rather work for a fortune five hundred company and sell my childhood dreams of being a rodeo clown for a 401K!
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