Heads Have Rolled

We had a round of layoffs at work this morning. Twelve people lost their jobs. Fortunately, I was not among them.

Compared to the sort of blood letting I’ve seen during the dot-com bust, 12 is a pretty low body count. It still sucks though, and not just for the people who got laid off. Unless the hit list is made up entirely of slackers, there is a whole bunch of extra work that everyone else will have to do. As I am an alcoholic and not a workaholic, you can understand my problem with this.

In my group, one of the other programmers got the ax. He’s good, arguably better than I am. I don’t know all the factors behind management’s decision, but let’s just say that my wide stance in the men’s room has done wonders for my job security (wink, wink).


You are reading the 100th blog entry to be published on Poison Spur. Tonight when I am at home drinking scotch out of a Santa chalice and looking at internet porn, I will raise my glass and toast this milestone. I urge you to do the same.

I’ve been pretty happy with how the site has progressed overall. My writing has become more coherent and I’m pleased with Meatmarket’s contributions on Mondays. There is a measure of mad genius in her and Poison Spur benefits from a take on life other than my own.

In fact, I’ve been enthusiastic enough to start promoting the site through search-engine submissions and the like. The benefit of this endeavor has been a small but measurable increase in readership. The drawback is a daily deluge of spam, enough so to force me to disable the autoposting of comments. I apologize in advance to those visitors who wished to send their credit-card information to the Russian mafia while thinking they were buying Disney toys for their kids.

I used to bemoan the fact that Poison Spur has no discernible direction but now I’m OK with that. If I were to draft a mission statement for the site, it would simply say “Whee!”

Or let me put it another way.

Let’s say some guy wants to try out a pickup line. He sits down next to some random woman at a bar and asks her “Are you a party pooper or do you just have one?”

What could he hope to accomplish other than having her throw the contents of her drink in his face? Nothing, and that’s the point. It is not the hope of favorable outcome that makes him say those words. It is the joy he derives from saying them.

And that, my friends, is what Poison Spur is all about.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Singed

A flipped-out flapper, Zelda was
Born into luxurious wealth
But money mattered not because
It could not save her mental health

For reasons hers, she married Scott
Another lapse of inhibition
Together with that wordsmith sot
They thumbed their nose at prohibition

From bottoms up to bottomed out
The onset of insanity
While Scott got drunk, she’d scream and shout
‘Twas time to throw away the key

One night a fire took Zelda’s life
A taste of past and future hell
This tragic end for F. Scott’s wife
Burned crisp inside her padded cell

Babylon Regurgitated

I find myself looking back on low points of my existence with a certain fondness if I feel those moments are truly behind me. Most have come and gone a long time ago, like when I was fresh out of college with little fewer prospects. Some are more recent though. This past Tuesday night immediately comes to mind.

I was logged into the A/V chatroom on a BDSM website while drinking scotch out of a plastic Santa chalice. Before that, I had a few Jameson’s at the Argus and polished off the last of a bottle of port after that. I shouldn’t have let myself get near a keyboard, let alone treat my fellow cyberpervs so the sights and sounds of me.

The room’s moderator tolerated my jokes, even the ones about grandmother killing and diarrhea gargling, but put her foot down when I tried to rally the troops to violate house rules by sending her private messages without asking. “IM the shit out of her,” I said. No one took me up on the offer, which is probably why I’m not banned for life.

Soon after that, I logged off and went to bed after some much-needed vomiting.

I’m a drunk. I admit that. However, it takes some very special circumstances to send me on the path toward this sort of freshman frat-boy stupidity. This was no exception.

Betty and our friend Malibooty chose my apartment as their party pad on Monday without asking me about it first. Never mind that I’m the one who actually lives there, their exuberant spirit of sisterhood was authorization enough. As for myself, I decided to avoid that scene and sought sanctuary at the bar.

When I felt too tired and liquored up to continue my self-imposed exile any longer, I went home. The women had mellowed out by then, but not before Malibooty had decided to make friends with one of my neighbors by shouting “Show me your cock!” at him from the back deck. I crawled into bed, wrapped the pillow around my head, and let oblivion overtake me.

Oblivion lasted until just after three, when my cell phone went off. Betty’s text messages from six hours earlier had just arrived. I woke up and saw my cat ripping a mouse to shreds. Unable to get back to sleep, I went into the office and checked that program I supposedly fixed. It was leaking memory like a sieve. And in just a few short hours, I had an appointment to be tortured in a dentist chair.

So you see, none of this was really my fault. And even if it was, who cares? Life is good now. My code works, my teeth are better, and the cat is content with kibble. I deserve to celebrate. Time for a drink.

Jumping on the Fatwa Bandwagon

I read that another cartoonist, this one from Sweden in deep doodie for making light of the prophet Mohammad. I don’t have anything against Muslims, other than their dislike of booze and uppity women (two things I cannot live without). It seems though that the more strident followers of Islam really need to get past their kill-the-infidels phase. Fundamentalist Christians aren’t a lot of fun either but most of them have given up bumping off heretics and heathens, at least in my neck of the woods. In the Balkans and Rwanda, your mileage may vary.

I wanted to print the cartoon here to show some support for both the cartoonist and the cause of free expression. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find it. No matter, I drew one of my own on a cocktail napkin last night.

Again, this is not a slam against religion. It is a blow for freedom. If anyone feels like beheading me, you can find me at the Argus.

Peace out, pilgrim.

We Need Moreau Them Stem Cells

Today’s post will be brief due to a hectic schedule at work this week. I indeed have “a long way to go and a short time to get there.” Yes, Smokey and the Bandit has taught me much about life.

Anyway, here’s a little gem I found reading BBC News yesterday:

‘Human-animal’ embryo green light

The only part of the story I find troubling is the researchers’ promise to destroy the embryos after 14 days. A sad case of missed opportunity if ever I saw one. Think of how great life would be with mutant hybrid servants.

“Dog Boy, fetch my newspaper. Lamprey Girl, fetch your knee pads.”

The Jive and Shuck of Nip and Tuck

Labia-reduction surgery. I didn’t know such a thing existed outside outside of the fantasies of very angry men who can’t get any. It’s true though. My friend Kat works as a nurse at a plastic-surgery clinic that offers the procedure for about $3300.

That’s not all they offer, of course. If you’ve been horribly disfigured from a shotgun blast to the face, they can take that exploded-calzone face of yours and make you look like Elmer Fudd, just like that kid who liked Judas Priest just a little too much.

For less severe cases, there’s rhinoplasty, breast enlargement, breast reduction, and all manner of alterations to ensure that whatever ugliness you have stays on the inside where it belongs.

The lip lopping baffles me though. How low do a woman’s labia have to hang before surgery becomes a viable option. The knees? Couldn’t she just get each one tattooed with a reclining curvaceous babe? It looks great on the mud flaps of a truck.