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Ego Worship at its worst

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Partners

“You OK? You look tense. Are you ready for this?”

“OK. I can do this. I am ready. I’m prepared. Why am I so nervous, though? I’ve done this before. Gah! But I think I’m going to die. My chest feels tight. I can’t breathe. Oh man, I’m dizzy all of a sudden. I need to sit down for a minute.”

“That just means the medicine is working!”

“What?”

“It means the medicine is starting to work.”

“Medicine? What medicine? I haven’t taken anything!”

“I slipped a little something into your beverage there. You should feel tranquil and mellow and ready for anything. Any minute now. And if you start seeing floaters or tracers or the lamps get all wiggly, I put in the wrong stuff, but I’m pretty sure I gave you the relax-y stuff.”

“What?! Why did you do that? This is possibly the most important presentation of my life! Our lives. We need them to sign the contracts! You drugged me? No wonder I can’t stand up.”

“‘I drugged you.’ Jeez. You make it sound like I’ve poisoned you. Lighten up. It was just one pill. You are such a drama mama sometimes. I know how nervous you get for these things. I just wanted to help you get a little more calm.”

“By doping me into insensibility?”

“No! Of course not. Though you may feel a bit light headed. And try to walk sideways. And think dogs can talk. For a little while. No big deal. That part will wear off by the time we get to the meeting. Probably. How much do you weigh? You know what? Never mind. You’ll be feeling great when we get over there. Primed and loose and ready to close the deal! You’re the MAN!”

“My lips are going numb.”

“Hm. I seriously doubt that.”

“Dey ar num, I’b delling dew! I can’b feeb my dongue eider!”

“You have got to relax. Take a deep breath. There is no way your face is going numb. There. You felt that slap, didn’t you? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Ow! Your hands are in your pockets.”

“See! You’re fine. Totally fine.”

“What did you put in my drink?”

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t drug me?”

“No, of course not. That would be unethical. And considering what I have in my medicine cabinet, highly illegal.”

“So there wasn’t anything in my Diet Coke?”

“Nope. Just all the normal chemicals that are usually in a Diet Coke. But don’t you feel better now? Relieved? Maybe, dare I say it… more relaxed?”

“Do I look relaxed now?”

“No, not at all. You look like at any second like you might split open and bats will start flying out of you.”

“Right.”

“Giant bats. Hairy flying rats, cascading out of your torso. Dripping a filthy mixture of blood and saliva from their deadly sharp fangs.”

“Thanks for that.”

“You know, I think you need a special permit to keep exotic pets like bats within the city limits. You don’t have a permit, do you? You could get arrested for that. Unlicensed bat keeping and because in about 10 minutes you are going to be stoned to the gills. You may also think you have gills.”

“You did put something in my drink, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. Let’s just say that half the fun of this meeting is going to be watching you try not to swallow your chin. Come on. They are already sold. This thing is just a formality. It’s going to be a cakewalk. Let’s go.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Friday, November 07, 2008

Correspondence

Dear Rob—

I think you may have mistakenly grabbed one of my pens. The black one. Would you please return it to me here in my office as soon as possible? I know it’s just a pen, but it has enormous sentimental value to me.

I have a meeting in an hour and need to take notes.

Thanks!
Jim


Jim

A meeting! Good for you! Get back up on the horse, man!

Sadly, I don’t have your pen. I only write using blue ink pens. Black ink is far too harsh for me. Have you looked all over your office? Perhaps underneath one of those stacks of books?

Good luck!
Rob


Rob,
I’ve had that pen for years. Last time I saw it, you had asked to borrow it to write yourself a note to pick up one of your anti-psychotic meds at the pharmacy. You were standing in my doorway, while we discussed your shrewd plan to “monetize” your back catalog of Frankenberry cereal boxes.

Maybe you put it in your sweater vest pocket by accident?

No harm, no foul! But I’d like it back as quickly as you can roll yourself down here.

Thanks.
Jim


Jim,
Ah, yes, that fateful conversation where you slyly chided and aloofly criticized my boyhood collecting proclivities. You know, you really should come up to the house sometime and see all the improvements my “psychotic need to hoard” has achieved after my numerous and insanely successful ebay sales. You could stay for the weekend in the new east wing of the main house.

As to your pen. My only guess is that it may be hiding under one of those teetering towers of paper, books and clutter on your desk.

“Look to thine own house.”

Rob


Rob—
“Look to thine own house”?
Um…
What?
Is that scripture you are trying to quote? I’m sorry, it’s quite difficult to type as I’m laughing so hard at the notion of you over there in your office, scouring sacred and religious texts for an applicable quote. It occurs to me that only you would be so crass and bold as to try and cover your tracks with a divinely inspired quote. Especially since that “incident” with the collection plate at First Presbyterian all those years ago.

Thanks for the comedy, Rob. You crack me up. I needed that.

But if you could simply take a moment to look in your desk drawers for my beloved pen. It’s engraved with my name on the barrel in bold letters and the line “Thanks for all your hard work! —Bill Clinton”. Maybe it slipped down into the drawer where you keep your not-so-secret stash of Stolichnaya?
Jim


J.
As I have explained to you (and the authorities) many times, my hand accidentally jarred the collection plate, knocking it over. It was a simple mistake. Any monies that incidentally landed in the folds of my coat were promptly returned to the rectory. Your clumsy attempt at repartee leaves me feeling even more sorry for you. I had not previously thought that possible.

You are quite welcome for the giggles. I’m sure levity must be in short supply in your life these days, since Rita left the state with her yoga instructor last April. We got a card from her the other day, by the way. She and Haji seem to be doing quite well. She’s pregnant now, had you heard? I guess it wasn’t she who was the infertile one as you had always posited.

I can absolutely understand your continuing reluctance to search your office for your woe begotten pen. The smell alone from the southeast corner is enough to gag even the hardiest of souls. Maybe you should call the Health Department and ask them to send over a team to evacuate the more fetid crevices before you begin a search in earnest?

Ah yes, my “secret stash.” How funny you should bring that up, given all the rumors I’ve heard of late about how your last “sabbatical” wasn’t spent over at the Sorbonne doing “research,” but was at the Promises Rehab facility. I hear they do good work. Shame it didn’t take in your case.

R.


Rob.

I am tired of these games.

You have my pen. I saw you using it as one half of a set of chopsticks in the company cafeteria, while you gluttonously slurped down your Thai noodles last Tuesday.

And my heavens man, they have napkins there! You should look into using those instead of your left sleeve after you shovel food into that gaping maw of yours.

I am sorry it has come to this, but have my pen back to me by the top of the hour, or I’m calling Security. I wonder if they also might be interested in your extra-curricular accounting practices?

Jim


J.

Well, congratulations, James, you have sunk to a new low. I hadn’t thought that possible in this liftime. But you have stretched your wings far and wide in order to glide down to this abysmal low. Petty blackmail threats for what amounts to a useless trinket from a womanizing amoral adulterer.

Did you know that everyone who gave even $5 to the re-election campaign got one of those trinkets you are currently obsessing over?

And, as I recall during my ever so brief encounter with your obscenely treasured pen, it didn’t write smoothly at all. I can’t for the life of me see why you hold it in such esteem. My normal flowing script was reduced to a shaky line that resembled an epileptic’s EEG or perhaps your scrawl after one of your late night benders.

R.


Robert:

FOR THE LAST TIME, DO NOT CALL ME “JAMES.”

That represents my father and I think of it as my “slave” name.

I expect my pen to back in my hands at the end of the day.

Security is on speed dial.

J.


James.

Your “slave” name. Now I’m having trouble typing again as the waves of laughter cascade over me.

You do remember that you are as white as a lily and born and bred of old WASP-y New England money, don’t you? Surely, your personal delusions haven’t carried you that far down the road to madness, have they?

Rob


Rob.

You should be hearing the bootfalls of Security outside your office door any moment now.

I hope the mace they use on you doesn’t stain your clothes. Though obviously your dry cleaner is a miracle worker, given your horrid grooming habits and poor hand-eye coordination at meal times.

Jim


James:

Good News!

I believe I have found your pen!

It was in the possession of a local transient named “Gilly.” Gilly, though I’m loathe to judge another human being harshly, doesn’t appear to be the most wholesome creature walking the streets these days. It also seems that he’s wiped the pen off as best he could with good old fashioned “spit and polish.” Au natural as it were. And, notwithstanding the difficultly in understanding his rambling mutterings, it’s also possible he believes himself to be a medical professional of some sort and was convinced your pen was a rectal thermometer. You’ll have to check to be sure on that score, though; I think he’s quite mad. Also, don’t be alarmed, he’s kept the pen quite safe and tucked into the folds of his mountainous flaps of sweaty skin.

He should be delivering it in person to your office post-haste.

Good luck at your meeting!

Rob

Monday, July 14, 2008

Help Wanted

I was driving all over creation with my Mom and step dad last week and came across this sign:

Did I apply?

I’m not saying.

But here is a small part of my application letter to be Mayor of South Weber, Utah.

July 8, 2008

To Whom it May Concern:

Good sirs and madams! Salutations and warm greetings to you from me, Jon Deal, your future Mayor and Overlord!

Despite what you may have heard from the cretins in North Weber, where I formerly held court and ruled, I have always been a true devotee of the South Weber lifestyle. A fan, if you will. You have it nice in South Weber and I need a change of scenery from the dull and exceeding difficult landscape of North Weber.

While I’m on the subject of North Weber, I need to dispel some nasty rumors floating around and probably spread by those ungrateful wretches up in the tundra-filled wasteland that is North Weber. As you may have read in that traitorous rag, The North Weber Dispatch, my term of service was contentious, though fruitful for many of the “faithful.”

Please note the following:

1. I did not and have never had sexual congress with any livestock.


2. The carpet in Mayoral complex was like that when I got there (And I BETTER get back my security deposit)


3. Those so-called “kickbacks” and “bribes” were all properly accounted for. I run a tight, though exceedingly complicated financial ship.


4. I did not “steal like thieving whore” the mayoral limo. I gave it back, but since that smell won’t come out, they told me just to keep it.

Having cleared up those minor details, I would like to present to you my qualifications for Mayor of your fine city.

Crime will be non-existent. I am able to achieve this remarkable feat based on my “shoot to kill” curfew, which goes into effect at 7:01 PM and runs until 6 AM. If you are on the street during those hours, you are a criminal and deserve your instantaneous punishment. Yes, the folks at the mall will complain about having to close early, but it’s for the best, really.

A flourishing economy. While it’s true that a purely “Amway-based” financial system sounds risky, I assure you that my theories on economic development are based on sound monetary policies and fiscal principles. Plus, many construction jobs will be created when the South Weber Mayoral Palace expansion plans are enacted. And yes, though my family and retinue are not overly large, I think you will agree, 47 rooms, 26 bathrooms and a shooting range in the basement is paltry for a leader of my stature. Once the renovations are complete, daily tours of the palace will also bring in revenue, after my personal expenses are taken care of. (It’s my home, after all, I need to re-coup some of my outlays and the inconvenience of having filthy tourists in my house)

National Security/Defense. You make be asking yourselves, “We are a small town in northern Utah, why do we need to worry about National Security and defense policy?” Excellent question, but I’m afraid that I can’t answer it at this time, given certain provisions of the Patriot Act. But I can assure you that a couple tanks rolling down the streets will also help to keep the crime rate low. The squadron of F-16s stationed at the new air base where old man Klemper’s farm used to be and patrolling the skies daily are just an added safety measure. Also, old man Klemper is quite happy at his new place in Snowshoe Hill, Alaska. The cold, artic air is just what his emphysema needs the doctors tell me.

Education. I will be South Weber’s Education Mayor. See the enclosed material for detailed plans for the re-vamp of South Weber’s schools. Do not be alarmed, the “re-education camps” are well-lit and quite comfortable, just have the children bring extra jackets and blankets when they ship out. Children are nothing if not infinitely adaptable, I’ve found. Also, don’t be alarmed that the curriculum seems overly militaristic and regimented. Children need a firm hand and a little discipline goes a long way in shaping the mind of a child.

Please accept this small check as a token of my esteem and a tiny reward for your consideration.

Thank you!

Jon Deal

P.S. I no longer appear in public due to numerous threats against my person, so we can forego my usual ceremonial Mayoral sash and regalia at this time.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

From the Office of Mis-directed Email

Yesterday I got this email which wasn’t supposed to come to me, she just can’t type very well:

On May 14, 2008, at 6:12 PM, pants wrote:

Just a reminder to look for your FM radio iPod adapter thingy… :-)

Later gator,

Mads

My reply is as follows:

Mads—

I looked and looked and looked EVERYWHERE for my FM radio iPod adapter thingy and I’m sorry; I can’t find it.

Of course, this saddens me greatly and for the following reasons:

A) I don’t have an FM radio iPod adapter thingy.

Having torn the house up looking for the misbegotten device I can only come to the conclusion that I don’t own one. In retrospect it would have been much easier simply to head over to a local consumer electronics store and purchase an FM radio iPod Adapter thingy. Instead I emptied every drawer, rummaged through closets and in a move I’ve come to regret mightily, ripped out the drywall in the living room to try and find something I don’t even own. The repairs to our rumpus room walls alone will be far, far, far more than the cost of an FM radio iPod Adapter thingy. Those are only like $40 or so. I’m still getting estimates on the wall repairs.

Also, the cavity search of members of my family and immediate neighbors was a very bad idea.

B) An FM radio iPod adapter thingy would really help me and my self image.

I currently use a super cheap cassette adapter in my car, so I can listen to my iPod while I drive aimlessly and lethargically around the city on my meaningless errands and to and from my pointless and soul sucking job. It cost me around $6 at the grocery store and though it is serviceable, it is not sexy. It does nothing for either my self-image or my self-esteem.

And you know so well how desperately I need to be sexied-up.

I went online and looked at a few of them.

Holy guacamole on a toasted onion bagel, they are GORGEOUS!

How very cool they appear and how nicely they would gleam if mounted on my dashboard. My pathetic cassette adapter trails an unseemly wire out of my car stereo and I have to stare at that disgusting wire all the time, even when it’s not hooked to my iPod. Though the sound quality is average at best, I had previously thought that given my poor taste in music (my predilection for bubble gum pop from boy bands of the early 90s rears its ugly head, yet again), sub-standard to middling sound reproduction was the best I should hope for. As I read the specification for various FM radio iPod adapter thingies, my enjoyment of my precious Backstreet Boys bootleg recordings could be increased substantially through the use of one of these wondrous doo-dads.

And obviously, that is not all.

How much better my life would be with the soothing warmth of a tiny LCD screen or the torch-y sultriness of an FM adapter iPod thingy, like I’ve seen online and in catalogs? My heavenly stars on a beach ball, can’t you just see how much more attractive my visage would be if it were bathed in the greenish glow of LED lights? Maybe if I mock something up in Photoshop?

Obviously, I’m missing out on a lot.

C) “Later gator,”

Are you just trying to be mean here?

You know how deathly afraid I am of alligators, crocodiles and other reptiles ever since that unfortunate trip to the Everglades in 1982 when I could feel the baby alligators staring me down and inspecting my shoes and then, though you have always ridiculed me for this, I swear up and down on a stack of stolen Gideon Bibles that those little reptilian slot eyed demons were accusing me of “wearing their mommy.”

Is this some kind of twisted joke on your part, trying to send me into a panicked frenzy, when you know I am out of Atavan until Dr. Chandrasekhar comes back from Dehli in June?

If so, then “Job Well Done,” Mads. Really, you have outdone yourself this time.

This even surpasses the time you snuck up behind me and draped tinsel over my head which caused me such consternation and shock that I gasped and subsequently swallowed an entire strand of garland and I pooped silver filaments for a month afterward.

Though it is difficult to discern tone and meaning from mere words in an email, I can’t help but surmise that you truly don’t want to be my friend any more.

I can sense from your hateful closing that my presence in your life is no longer necessary.

I will also stop going to the bi-weekly Cosplay meetings, which is just as well, since I can tell that my outfits (the “Barbarian in Chains and a Loincloth” ensemble in particular) were making you uncomfortable.

Best to you,
—jon

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

A Word from the Small Person in the House

[Today’s Special Guest Poster is my youngest daughter Ellis (5). Pretty sure she’s making some of this stuff up.

I like to color. I like to play with my toys. My favorite toy is my princess cash register.

My big brother Lucas is fun and friendly and he needs a haircut or he won’t look cool.

My big brother Jonah likes to play with Legos. He’s kind of funny and is like a monkey.

My big sister Carrie was in a play. I wasn’t allowed to see it because it was too scary for me. During Spring Break she took care of me. We went out to lunch with her friend Autumn.

My mom did the marathon and she runs a lot and she likes to play games and she likes my pictures. The ones that I draw. She’s funny and makes little funny jokes like, “Why did the meatball roll down the house? Because he thought it would be fun, but he fell down and he hit his head and he went in the dirt and then he grew a bush and that had meatballs on it.”

I like to play princesses with my dress ups. My favorite movie is Mariposa and my favorite book is “The Secret Mermaid Handbook.” I go to school and I don’t like nap time and I like to sing and play with my friends. I like to read at school. Tonight my mom gave me a haircut and now I have nice bangs. My mom took me to see Disney Princesses on Ice and it was FUN! I liked it when Cinderella was in a carriage on ice. She had no horses. And when the dragon came out in the Sleeping Beauty part. He blowed out fire [sic.] and lit the ice on fire.

My Daddy is silly and he was sick over the weekend. He is not cute. He has an iPhone and it’s cool because you can touch the screen and watch Harry Potter Puppet Pals on it.

That’s all I have to say and can we be done now?

Favorite Entries

If you are new around here, the following entries have been reasonably well received. You might want to peruse these.

• Partners
• Correspondence
• Help Wanted
• From the Office of Mis-directed Email
• A Word from the Small Person in the House
• RNT Product Review: Chocolate Mix Skittles Left Me Sterile!
• Jon’s Report Card circa… A Long Time Ago
• Dear Gratuitously Naked Conversationalist at the Gym:
• A Peek Inside the Writer’s Guild and Producers’ Negotiations
• We Regret the Error
• Letters from a Homeowner to His General Contractor
• What I Did There
• Hermaphrodite Administrative Assistants and Receptionists Need Not Apply
• Giving Me an IM Account Was Obviously a Huge Mistake
• Official Ransom Note Typography Vista vs. Mac OS X Shootout
• I Need a Real Hobby
• Beat Down
• Big Fat Lies
• True Love
• Now MY Ovaries Hurt
• Don’t Get Her Started
• Disturbing Trend
• Had to do it
• Mooshy stuff
• Ransom Note Typography End User License Agreement “EULA”
• Diva-licious!
• Just so we’re clear
• PETA may have a point

Holy Crap! Look at all this STUFF down here. It's awesome!

 

Really, I'm glad you made it down here. Almost no one ever comes down here. I'm like in a freaking dungeon down here. I get lonely. But not you. YOU made it all the way to the end of the page. For this I think I've a little crush on you. I don't know, is "love" to strong a word to use in this situation? Well, if it's not "love," then it's very strong "like." I'm totally in like with you for coming down here. You are awesome. Please love me back! I know, I know, I shouldn't be all needy, it's not attractive at all, but you don't know how it is to be stuck down here. Who scrolls all the way to the end of a page anymore these days? Anyway, thanks for shedding some light down here in the depths. I appreciate it. Shoot me an email and I'll send you a dollar, OK?

©2005-2010 Jon B. Deal All Rights Reserved. I'm not kidding around here, I know people who know other people who would be willing to beat you up or similarly infringe on your rights, should you happen to infringe on my rights.