When I started the MB back in 2000, my original intent was to showcase my resume and minuscule design portfolio. I had just made the transition from print design to web design and thought the purchase of the domain name would motivate me to learn more about designing and maintaining websites. It did.

In 2002, the MB transitioned from a professional showcase to a personal one. I started posting about all manner of nonsense, because, in case you have not realized by now, I have a lot to say about a lot of shit. In 2002 there was no Facebook. No Twitter. No MySpace. No news feeds. It actually took some doing to track down links and write about them. I was happy to do this because my job was mind-numbing and management at the data slaughterhouse had no idea what the hell I was up to. Soon, links, emails and IMs started flooding in from the likes of Jake, Michael, DJ, Kaye, Monica, CH, Gay Joe and Mark. Boredom loves company? I was happy to be posting regularly as it fueled my passion for creativity in ways that my career was not.

Enter Broz Design in November 2008 and my posting to the MB fizzling out. Maybe its because I am fulfilled professionally? Or because I would rather hang out with my kid than waste my time posting about a guy that got fucked to death by a horse? Or maybe it is time to take the MB into a new direction? I go with the latter. I have always dreamed about writing the Great American Novel but am no closer to that goal than I was last year. My New Years resolution for 2010 is to start using the MB to focus more on actually writing a book and get some ideas out into the ether. It may not lead to anything other than me doing what I have been wanting to do for some time and that is fine. It is not like you want to read about a horse fucking a guy to death, anyway. Right?

Labels: /mark, broz design, career, data slaughterhouse, dj, gay joe, jake, kaye, matt brozovich, mons, perversion, technology, tomfoolery

Last Monday my boss and I had a Come-To-Jesus chat regarding my complete lack of enthusiasm for my current position. While I informed him my lack of passion did not hinder me from going through the motions (just ask my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named), I did acknowledge that I was completely burnt out. Many factors led to my burnout; frequent late paychecks, a complete lack of any tangible project process (i.e. massive undertakings were given one line explanations like "Client Center back-end development: 36 hours"), lack of established deadlines and milestones (other than early 2008 or late 2008), non-payment of contractors/vendors and a general malaise regarding client/vendor relationships. I was issued an ultimatum to decide by that Friday whether or not I wanted to stay with the company. When Friday rolled around, I quit, packed up all my shit and went over to DJ's house to get drunk and play poker (in a rare Ex-Data Slaughterhouse Employees Game victory, I took home $60). After a tumultuous career path over the past three years, I am finally growing some balls and committing full-time to Broz Design. I have already nabbed two and a half retainer clients (the other half happening once I get off my ass and draw up a contract) that will pay me more all while working less and living the pants-free dream. My pregnant wife is thankfully awesome and supportive of my pursuits and deserves a new Lexus once I start rolling in the dough. It is either that or we will be selling our unborn child on the Mexican black market to make ends meet. Wish me luck either way.

Labels: babies, broz design, career, data slaughterhouse, dj, drinking, pants-free, poker, she who, taxi dev, wife

There is nothing I can say about Lesbian Turkish Oil Wrestling except its arrival to the scene was long overdue. Jake, Gay Joe and myself discovered the national Turkish all-male sport back in the Data Slaughterhouse days which yielded many discussions and one inappropriate IM buddy icon that Joey rocked for two solid years thanks to a useless human resource department and a devil may care attitude. I am proud that the Turkish Oil Wrestling organization finally acknowledged the Women's Movement and decided to let oiled-up dykes grapple with each other in the Turkish tradition. It looks like Daddy just found a new show to record on the HD DVR.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, jake, lesbians, tomfoolery, turkish oil wrestling

Nameless Ex Coworker: Hey, do you know the login and password to that thing on the corporate website you designed? I need to do something with that.
Me: Yes. It will cost $80 an hour for that information. That is my going design rate for for-profit corporations. Or we can work out a flat fee.
Nameless Ex Coworker: Seriously? Even for me?
Me: For you and for anyone who represents your company.
Nameless Ex Coworker: Wow.
Me: It's a pleasure doing business with you.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, im convos

In the past two weeks, my former employer's chief technologist accepted a job offer in Boulder and three members of the senior sales staff resigned (I am still firmly entrenched in the data slaughterhouse gossip circle). I shared anger, pain, jokes, laughs and bourbon with all four of these individuals and am happy to see them make it over the wall. A message to all my people still trapped on the inside: The owl hoots at night. The fat man is dancing with the briefcase. The bell tolls for thee. Vive la Resistance!

Labels: boulder, career, data slaughterhouse, unemployment

I heard back from both companies I interviewed with last week. Company #1, located in Downtown Denver, gave me the "I just want to be friends" routine via email. Classy move. Maybe you should hire my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named, Company #1. Like you, she is a cold-hearted bitch with no regard for social etiquette and would thrive within your corporate culture. Company #2, located near the Governors Mansion, offered me the position and I turned it down. Sure, it would be nice to start working again and sock away my severance booty towards a Mexican holiday with the wife, but something told me to stay away from that place. Perhaps it was the HR lady wearing sneakers, the invasive personal questions regarding my values or the "We do not use Macs" line that turned me off. All I know is that I ignored my instincts far too long while languishing at the data slaughterhouse and I refuse to ever do that again. In more interesting news, a neighboring town home burned down a few days ago. It appears as if the firewall did its job and kept the whole unit from succumbing to the flames. Good times.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, denver, she who, unemployment, wife

Yesterday I was called into the CEO's office and was introduced to the Angel of Death (the Corporate HR Manager) and asked to sit down. I was informed that my position was being eliminated in a "10% workforce reduction." We then went over my severance information, COBRA benefits, standard employment reduction fare and I agreed to not take a flamethrower to the place. I was then escorted back to my cubicle to gather some personal effects. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief as I exited the building and proceeded to drive off for an expensive cup of gourmet coffee that tasted like dried Orangutan ass. I dialed up the wife, the parents, and a few of my "former" coworkers to tell them the news. I made it no secret that I was unsatisfied with the company and had been sending resumes off for sometime now. During five and half years I languished under the direction of multiple bosses, the workload of two designers, a culture shift from a tight-knit family towards a huge, worldwide mega-corporation, watched as good people with great ideas quit or got vilified and bad people with political agendas took over and unaffordable consultants shuffled in and out the door telling us what we already knew. I was blessed to work with some of the most awesome and genuine people I have ever known. A more complete collection of perverts, jackasses and alcoholics I have yet to come across and doubt I ever will again. I appreciate the excellent camaraderie (some days it was all that kept me going), the friendships that will endure long after the company closes its doors and the near uprising that was launched when my crew first learned of my fate. I wish those other unfortunate 10% well as their severance packages were not as healthy as mine and more akin to a smack in the face with a ballpene hammer. Where do I go from here? I have no clue. I plan on doing a lot of soul-searching, painting, reading, job hunting and reveling in the fact that I do not have to work at that fucking place anymore.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, l-i-v-i-n, unemployment

Other stuff that fuels binge drinking in the West besides boredom:

• Soul-crushing employers.
• Fantasy football drafts.
• Buying in a seller's market and selling in a buyer's market.
• A donated garage refrigerator reserved exclusively for meat, alcohol and assorted citrus fruits that can be chopped up and put in alcohol.
• Five weeks of vacation time that needs be used up by January 1, 2007.
• Mark Husson's sparse blog posting schedule.
• Your mom.

Labels: /mark, data slaughterhouse, drinking

Even if I had days to reflect on a metaphor to describe my current career situation it would not be any better than this. Adrift in a small, fiberglass boat in the middle of the ocean with people that do not speak English and subsisting on nothing but rainwater, raw fish and seabirds with only the Bible to read? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse

I get lost again walking through the hotel/casino I'm staying at. Never trust Mexican food from a place that sells margaritas by the yard. Never trust old ladies that look like old catchers mitts and carry their cigarettes in sequined coin purses. A man lies passed out on his shoes in the bus shelter by the Bellagio. Past the flash and glitz of "Disneyland" lies north Las Vegas. The crooked past of the city is exposed. The further north I walk on the Strip, the faces look rough and mean. Missing teeth, chiseled age lines, hollow eyes and ruined dreams manifested in each countenance. It costs $30 to go to the top of the Stratosphere. That's Daddy's crap money. I turn south and head back down the Strip after I realize I may get robbed and stabbed. I snap pictures of things and a crack head emerges from the darkness behind a palm tree and quips, 'Take all the pictures you want, baby, they don't cost nuthin'.' A man lies passed out behind the bus shelter across the street from Frontier. I quell the urge to wake him up and tell him it would be more comfortable if he were sleeping on his shoes. Drunk fat girls drinking margaritas by the yard howl and ogle as men walk by. A punk in a Slayer shirt sings South of Heaven loudly in the middle of the street. I get propositioned by another black prostitute over the walkway between the MGM Grand and Tropicana. I hit the craps table thinking I'm White Chocolate. I lose $40 before the waitress brings me my first drink. On the walkway to the Luxor, a fat girl's ass hangs out of her mini-skirt. I'm leaving tomorrow only $39 down. The last thought that enters my head before I drift off to sleep: I AM White Chocolate.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, how design, travels, vegas

I'm in Sin City this week for the 2006 How Design Conference.

This town is a corporate dumpster. Drag queens on the corner ask me for spare change and menthol cigarettes. Children asleep in their strollers as parents walk them back to the hotel after blowing this month's mortgage payment on roulette. Mexicans peddle sex on the street corners that killed our best gangster poet. Ugly people pretend to be beautiful. Beautiful people pretend to be ugly. Underage frat boys watch the Bellagio fountains with a twelve pack of Corona. The well-manicured casino landscaping smells like vomit. A black prostitute propositions me. I say 'No thanks' and she calls me a racist. A man in a wheelchair races his friends on the Excalibur walkway and crashes into the glass doors at full rolling speed. I lose $39 at the craps table. Tomorrow I will get an In-N-Out Burger for lunch.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, how design, travels, vegas

I am in the midst of contemplating some major career decisions. These past six months have been the worst of my professional life and that includes my first year out of college when I was laid off twice and commuting fifty miles daily in a car with no air conditioning. Needless to say, I have been sending out resumes with the subtlety of a self-immolating Buddhist monk. I have started a morning ritual of meditating in my car before I go into the office to put myself in the right frame of mind. The ritual goes as such: I take a deep breath and think about starving children in Africa whose villages are torn apart by famine, disease and death. I take a deep breath and think about young female amputees scared for life by land mines and the memories of having sex with zealot soldiers consumed with hate just to survive a civil war. I take a deep breath and think about heroin addicts living on the streets who were born into unloving, drug infested homes where they were physically, sexually and mentally abused. Then I call myself a pussy, put my experience in perspective, sack up and go into the office dreaming of the day when I will finally get rid of that fucking car without air conditioning. Recent developments have me hopeful this will happen very soon. Now on to more important things; like Eastern European broads wrestling in their panties. Spoiler: The match is decided when the brunette puts the blond in a nasty head-scissor lock.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, drugs, perversion, war

Across the Colorado front range today, the winds are blowing like a high school girl full of Boones Farm wine in the backseat of a used Chevy Beretta. I am watching the strong winds bend light posts and trees as tumbleweeds, dirt and debris are being strewn across the landscape with intense ferocity from my office window. The building is rattling and swaying and it feels like the windows are seconds away from blowing out. I have got my camera ready in case some shit blows over and madness ensues.

Fuck you, 90 mph winds.

Labels: colorado, data slaughterhouse, wind

Regular scotch is good but stock option scotch is the tits. The stock option check came my way due to the company I work for getting "acquired."

Labels: data slaughterhouse, liquor

Highlights from my past two weeks of travel (click here and here some hot Flickr action):

• At the HOW Design Conference, I learned some new tricks, saw some awesome design work and ate deep-dish pizza and drank numerous beers with friend/former coworker Michael. I cannot wait to get back to work with renewed creative enthusiasm only to have it crushed in a matter of seconds when I am given four pages of copy and told to "make it work" on a one-sided direct mail postcard.
  
• Caught a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. The future wife and I soon discovered that our alcohol tolerance is much higher in the Midwest that at altitude. I spent the entire game covered in sweat due to high humidity and a broken air conditioner on the El-Train ride out to the game that waspacked butts to nuts.
  
• Visited the Art institute of Chicago and saw some amazing work (Picasso, an orgy of impressionism) and some atrocious work (minimalism and American Gothic). Best quote while looking at the Georgia O'Keeffe collection: "She is very vaginal."
• The future wife and I took a beautiful sunset architectural tour of Chicago.
• Visited future in-laws in Eugene, Oregon. I found out that Eugene is almost identical to Boulder, minus the sex assaults, random rioting and the Flat Irons.
• Animal House was filmed at the University of Oregon so the future wife's cousin took us on the Animal House tour at U of O, showing us the infamous frat house (currently vacant) and the cafeteria where the food fight scene took place.
• Drove up the Oregon coast on Highway 101 that is incredible for scenery, shitty for traffic and great for fried seafood joints.
• Spent three days in Long Beach, Washington in the heart of Lewis and Clark Country. We did the tours of various Lewis and Clark outposts, forts and landings, learned that the proper pronunciation of Sacagawea is Sa-caca-we-ah and ate a cut of fresh fish the size of our heads in Oysterville, Washington.
• The closest I got to the ocean was dipping my feet in the 42-degree water. The oceans surrounding the Columbia River are some of the roughest and most treacherous in the world. Mix that in with the fact they are as cold as an Eskimo's vagina so swimming is not ideal (unless you are white trash parents laying out on towels "watching the kids play in the water" while smoking cigarettes).

Sidenote: After months of procrastination and toil, I finally got Broz Design up.

Labels: art, broz design, career, data slaughterhouse, how design, pop culture, sports, travels, vajayjay, wife

In a few short hours, I will be on a plane headed for Chicago and the 2005 HOW Design Conference. Once the conference concludes, the future wife and I will be hanging around the Windy City for a few days. We will be back in Denver next Thursday only to leave for Oregon the following Saturday to visit with our in-laws for the week. Posting will be minimal to none on the MB during this time. If you start going through withdrawals consider Jake, Boing Boing, /mark or Fleshbot your methadone. Especially Fleshbot. They have dirty pictures and stuff.

Labels: /mark, career, data slaughterhouse, denver, how design, jake, travels

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Instead of celebrating (read: laying on the couch, drinking beer and watching Black Caesar on the digital cable) the life of one of the most important leaders in American history, I had to work. We only get a day off at the office for important historical figures if they owned slaves.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, history, tomfoolery

My boss just gave me a bottle of Greg Norman Estates Shiraz 2002 for the holidays. I am assuming the Shark makes a pretty mean wine despite his colossal chokes in major tournaments. When it comes to wine I honestly do not know what is good and what is not (my experiences are limited to thumb hole jugs of Riunite and the assorted boxed blends of Franzia). It is time to break out the good glasses, honey. Daddy is bringing home some Christmas wine.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, drinking, sports, wife, xmas

Almost everyday around 10:30 in the morning, I proceed to the corporate washroom to evacuate my bowels. I am a regular man that enjoys his stall time and building on his high scores at cell phone bowling (my lady's brother aptly refers to his stall time as a visit to the Fortress of Solitude). The problem with the corporate washroom is that every time you open the door, you are rolling the dice. Sometimes, its as fresh and sparkling as if the Mexican janitor just hosed it down with some industrial strength cleaner. Other times, its reminiscent of a monkey cage at the zoo. We have three stalls; two are regular size and one is of the jumbo, handicapped variety. Most people use the handicapped stall because it is spacious and makes one feel important. The amount of traffic to that stall is the very reason I never use it. I do not wish to share the same seat with a grubby salesperson that ate three microwavable cheeseburgers from a gas station for breakfast. My choice is limited to the remaining two stalls. I always choose the stall closest to the door due to my understanding of basic psychology, as most people do not prefer to sit in the seats closest to the door. I open said stall this morning and prepare to take care of business when I notice something on the toilet seat; a single curly hair. I conclude it is indeed a pubic hair, as no man in our office has the kinky, curly locks of Gabe Kaplan or a Jack Sikma. Disgusted, I exit the bathroom, walk down a flight of stairs and use the second floor commode. As of today I have officially instituted a floor down corporate shitting policy. Those mortgage fuckers seem more civilized, anyway.

Update floor down corporate shitting policy: I just returned from the second floor lavatories and must say that I am impressed. The bathroom smelled of a mountain spring, the toilets and floors were spotless and there was a copy of today's paper left by a thoughtful gentlemen. All that was missing was a classical music feed, a hand towel attendant and a bowl of mints.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, poop, pop culture

Every morning I walk into my office building and I run into the whale that works on the first floor and is pushing two and a half bills. She has a handicap parking pass hanging from her rear view mirror and waddles out to her car periodically during the day for a smoke (sitting in her car and smoking, mind you, not actually standing up and smoking). In these situations I get angry for the handicapped community. She does not look nor act legitimately handicapped, she just has a difficult time slinging her immense weight around. Handicap parking is reserved (rightly) for paraplegics and little old ladies with plastic hips who have a hard time getting around. I want to push that blubber factory down every time I see her. I am certain she would argue that her condition is due to an overactive thyroid or predisposition to obesity. I am certain there is medication to treat a thyroid condition, and if one does not have money to purchase said medication than one should quit wasting five bucks a day on a pack of cigarettes and save their pennies. If you are born into an obese family that does not mean you have an excuse to be fat, it just means that you inherited a low metabolism and need to be cautious with what you eat and get regular exercise. Being obese is not cool unless you are the Blob. I am sure this guy would agree with me.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gluttony, rage

I do not understand the Krispy Kreme phenomenon. Whenever a company-wide email goes out regarding the mere presence of Krispy Kremes, herds of gluttonous fucks stampede into the company break room and lay waste to the donuts as if they were Georgia during General Sherman's March To The Sea. In my opinion, Krispy Kreme donuts taste like the sugared sweat of a donkey's balls.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, food, gluttony

For the next two weeks I will be going on tour like a trashy hair metal band in 1988. Early tomorrow morning, my lady and I are off to San Diego where we will walk on the beach, eat fresh sea bass, patronize the new Padres stadium, visit the San Diego Zoo, watch a live donkey show in Tijuana and drink our body weight in margaritas. Sunday night, my lady flies back to Denver and I will stay in the OC for the 2004 How Design Conference. The HOW Design Conference lasts three days and I will be attending sessions, chilling with my old boss Michael and last year's partner in crime Scott from Minnesota (who won a free pass to the event and will be crashing in my room, assuring me he will not go all Fear and Loathing up in that bitch) and kicking it California gangsta style by the pool with chocolate honeys and bottles of Courvoisier.

After the HOW Design Conference wraps up, I will be catching an afternoon flight to Las Vegas where my good friends Kaye and Aaron will be getting married. I will be staying in Sin City for one night, winning big at various gaming tables and drinking free watered-down whiskey as I insult professional card dealers for giving me trash.

I arrive back in Denver Thursday evening, only to catch a plane to Boise, Idaho the following morning. In a state that is synonymous with potatoes and the white power movement, I will be attending my lady's grandfather's 95th birthday celebration.

On Sunday, May 23, I finally make my way home to Denver exhausted and battered from almost two weeks of traveling where I plan on crawling into my king size bed and sleeping until Armageddon.

Labels: boise, career, chili dog, data slaughterhouse, denver, how design, kaye, travels, vegas, wife

During my lunch hour I headed to the Super Target to procure a cheap AM radio so I could listen to the NCAA Tournament games in my cubicle (as I post this, I am number two in the office pool. Stanford Cardinal all the way, baby). I follow a young woman (approximately 20 years of age) into the retail superstore and am horrified to witness to one of the most unsettling views in contemporary American society: low-rise jeans, a bare midriff and back fat. Rolls and rolls of mushy back fat. With a butterfly tattoo right in the middle of it. I should have reprimanded the young woman for not only showing off her obesity but also accentuating it with a stupid fucking tattoo. Ladies, if you have a handful of flab hanging over the side of your pants you do not look like Gabrielle Reece. You look like chain smoking gutter trash that takes their dirty bastard children to the flea market to purchase cheap jewelry and black market name brand clothing.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gambling, gluttony, sports

Modern science is magical. Veterinary students can learn how to properly rectally palpitate cattle on the bovine rectal palpation simulator. This simulator is similar to the position I assume when I ask for a raise at work; my boss being the young student who does not take his wrist watch off in the scenario.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, science

On my drive into work this morning I saw two little kids playing with a balloon at the bus stop. This made me happy.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, random

The boys from work got together last night for a low stakes game of Texas Hold 'Em. I made out with the big stack, B-Dawg turned a tidy profit, Neal got lucky on the last hand that made his night respectable and I knocked Jake out of the game with a monster full boat (aces and sixes) to his strong two pair (kings and aces). EZ delivered the big funny of the evening after I turned him out like an abusive pimp than began to verbally humiliate him he shot back with, "I think you were circumsized to high." He is lucky I do not have a god complex at the card table ala Joe Pesci in Goodfellas otherwise I would have ended the night digging a hole somewhere in a vacant lot between Denver and Boulder.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, ez, jake, poker

I was involved in an uncomfortable situation in the company break room this morning. I was making a vat of cocoa (and when I say vat, I am not fucking around. I swooped up a Brew Keg from 7-11 that holds fifty-five ounces of hot liquid. On a cold bitch of a morning like this, it holds me together like steel) when a fellow employee walks in. I have my back turned to him, so I ask him how his holiday was (being as I had the past two weeks off). We engage in lighthearted banter and I turn to look at him and immediately notice that his eye is swollen shut. Needless to say, I was taken aback. He notices the look of horror on my face and acts as if I offended him and walks away. Well excuse me, Mr.Sensitive but your fucking eye is swollen shut. Should I act like I did not notice? Christ.

Upon further reflection I was then reminded of an even more uncomfortable social situation I experienced. I was out barhopping in lower downtown Denver. I consumed many spirits and was feeling loose but focused. Our group eventually made its way to a dance club, which was peculiar because nobody in our group liked to dance. We waded through a sea of sweaty young people contorting their bodies to shitty house music and bellied up to the bar. After a shot or four, I decided to hit the dance floor and fuck some shit up. Nobody joins me; not even the women in our group. So there I am, drunk, alone and swaying on the dance floor. I feel somebody rubbing on my ass. I glance back and notice an attractive female smiling at me. We proceed to engage in what the kids call "bumping and grinding" for almost an hour nary saying a word to each other. Finally, I become parched and invite the young lady to the bar offering to buy her a drink. She informs me that her and her friends are getting ready to leave but thanks me anyway. I ask her if I can get her number and take her out sometime. She smiles and then reaches in her purse for a pen. She hands it to me and I write her number down on a cocktail napkin. I reach out to shake her other hand (now keep in mind its dark in this club and I am totally obliterated so my powers of observation are skewed) and instead I grab a stump. She did not have a fucking hand. I jump back, completely surprised and utter, "Holy shit! Where is your fucking hand?!" She stares at me for what seems like an eternity and then says, "You are an asshole." Good times.

Labels: college, data slaughterhouse, denver, drinking

I may not be huddled over some archaic accounting book quilling with frozen fingers in the dim candlelight with a shawl wrapped around my torso (quite the opposite actually, as its hotter than your whore sister in here) but working Christmas Eve still sucks. The only people in today are me, Neal and some Jews. Oh well. At least I am not this poor bastard.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, xmas

I just finished sifting through my post-Thanksgiving emails (I had 77 waiting for me when I strolled in). I have a legitimate use for only three of these emails. Now, I understand that bullshit office emails are a necessary function of corporate America. Any emails regarding the status of copy and fax machines, free muffins in the break room and the arrival of Burrito Guy I tolerate because they are necessary (the Burrito Guy is the unofficial company breakfast burrito peddler. His burritos rank somewhere between wet concrete and fresh elephant feces in terms of taste and edibility). What I cannot handle, however, are blast office emails regarding an individual's availability status; and nine times out of ten, it is usually someone in sales. The emails go something like this:

I will be out of the office for (insert time frame here). If anyone needs to contact me, please transfer to my voice mail or have them email me.

This is directed to anyone who has ever sent an email out like the one above:

First, if someone wants to contact you, chances are they already have your direct line, cell number or email. People in the business world understand that by using one or all of these methods of communication, their goal of getting in touch with you will be accomplished. The entire office does not need detailed instructions on what to do if someone calls or comes looking for you.

Second, nobody gives a shit where you are or will be at any given time. More than likely, people know what to do in your absence and/or possess the basic problem solving skills to figure out an alternative solution if you are not available. Contrary to the inflated ego inherent in cocksuckers like you, business continues operating when you are gone. This may come as a shock to your self-important ass, but you are just as expendable as the rest of us. It is called capitalism. You might have heard about it.

Finally, if you are not going to be in the office, use the Out of Office assistant or record an informative statement on your voice mail regarding your availability. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT email the entire fucking company.

I am tempted to start sending out company-wide emails informing the office of when I am going in to take a shit.

Labels: burritos, data slaughterhouse

Me: A story that is right up your alley
Gay Joe: Die Puny Humans? Love that site name!
Me: Totally.
Gay Joe: Or something.
Me: Fuck you, you silly little queer.
Gay Joe: Hey! I may be little and queer but I am not silly.
Me: Um.
Gay Joe: Okay maybe a little silly.
Me: I am surprised you have not faggoted up that cubicle with posters of Julie Andrews and the Depeche Mode.
Gay Joe: I have not done that because I am more of a dark fag.
Me: You are like the Darth Vader of the gay community. Or the grim reaper. Take your pick
Gay Joe: Vader. He had a huge helmet.
Me: The grim reaper has that giant scythe though. You could do some cool gay shit with it.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gay, gay joe, im convos, pop culture

For lunch, I got my sandwich on at Subway. Everyone always seems pissed at that place. The customers are agitated because they are in a hurry. Subway employees are either stoned college students with bad attitudes or middle-aged functioning alcoholics that hate their lives. It always seems that my sandwich is being rushed through the construction process, too. I am always getting yelled at from the toppings station: "What do you want on the spicy?" I am sorry, but I do not feel good about my sandwich unless I see the toppings being applied. One of those fucking junkies could be out of their mind and slip some onions or olives into my sub. Then, when I pull out my credit card to pay and ask for stamps, the people in line behind me have conniption fits. Hey mister and misses irritated corporate executive, a credit card is a widely used monetary unit and I collect sub stamps in order to one day obtain a free sandwich. I am poor, I do not carry cash and I like free shit, so quit getting your panties in a twist. I should have just gone to Quiznos with Jake.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, food, jake

When they say: It is just not in the budget.
They mean: We have already tapped the keg dry by paying outside contractors too much in order to accomplish the work that could have been performed cheaper and faster by existing employees therefore any budget requests you submit for a $150 software upgrade will be dutifully ignored.

When they say: We appreciate all the hard work your doing around here.
They mean: Thanks for busting your ass, but we are not even considering you for a raise or promotion. Instead, we will placate you with promises of a raise or promotion and free soda and donuts in the break room.

When they say: We are making you the project lead.
They mean: Since none of us have the testicular fortitude to admit wrongdoing when mistakes are made, we are appointing you the head of this project so we have someone to blame when the shit hits the fan.

When they say: This is not a high priority.
They mean: I want you to drop everything your doing and focus on this until it is done.

When they say: You will have it tomorrow.
They mean: I have no intention of getting this to you until sometime later next month and when (or if) I finally do, you can expect me to drop this back onto your lap at the worst possible time.

When they say: We will all be putting in long hours on this one.
They mean: I will do as little at humanly possible on this project then take all the credit for it after you worked until midnight for a week straight getting it done.

When they say: Our company is growing.
They mean: We are going to take this bitch public and cash out our stock options before you have any idea what hit you.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse

On my way back to office during lunch today I saw something so utterly ridiculous I am still in shock. While waiting at a traffic light, I pull behind a Dodge Neon. A sticker is placed squarely in the back window that reads "Brakes Are For Pussies." Easy Johnny Nitrous Oxide, you would be lucky if an old lady with a walker did not beat you up a hill in that high-performance fluorescent blue bucket of four cylinder shit that you call an automobile.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, stupidity

Christ it is hot in this office. I bet one of those skinny bitches turned up the thermostat again. They are always cold. It could be 102 degrees outside and they put on a sweater because it is "chilly out." Whenever one of them says, "I think it feels fine in here" it means that it is 15 degrees hotter than it should be. We need to crank up the air conditioning. I want it so cold in this place that we could hang slabs of beef from the rafters.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, summer

Today in Colorado, it is fucking hot. Like Africa hot. Like flames of hell hot. People are finding all sorts of ways to keep cool. I log onto my computer after dropping a deuce in the corporate washroom and I have this IM message flashing on my screen:

Jake: A 28-ounce Mountain Dew Livewire Slurpee, my friend. It is a high that never lets you down.

Amen, Jake.

Labels: colorado, data slaughterhouse, im convos, jake

Friday. Work late to complete a corporate Flash presentation that nobody will pay attention to. After work, I play in a coed softball game where my team wins 26-4 and the opposing team's third baseman catches a ground ball with her face and breaks her nose. Immediately following the game a torrential downpour ensues and I sprint to my car leaving my glove on the field. I roll to Tyler's house and play College Football with the Slushy Gutter Crew. At one point in the evening Tyler pours me either a glass of bourbon, scotch, or whiskey. I drink it and proceed to kick his ass with Virginia Tech 30-14. On the way home I realize that I left my mitt on the softball field.

Saturday. I attend my company picnic and run the corporate Flash presentation I put in long hours over. Surprisingly, people pay attention, laugh and tell me good job. After the presentation the picnic continues at a nearby park with a luau theme and a pig roasting. I eat heaping platefuls of swine and mingle with coworkers. Jake, Gay Joe and I make fun of some pasty kid trying to play football. We call him "Mary" and giggle like the dickheads we are. Joe tells us about his homosexual encounters the previous evening. Hula dancers many years past their prime shake their asses for our amusement. I volunteer to dance with them, throwing my inhibitions into the wind like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. I perform a dance with pom-poms and hip gyrations. I win the grand prize in the company raffle (a $200 gift certificate to the Flagstaff House). After the picnic, I attend a lesbian wedding with Monica, Kaye, Aaron, Nels and Kerry. We quickly become the obnoxious drunk table at the reception. A plant is passed around and the recipient of said plant gives a toast. A diverse blend of people wishes the couple well including a militant lesbian with an attitude problem and a sexual predator with disheveled hair holding a kid that liked to hit people in the face. I share my toast with the happy couple, lifting my glass and saying, "Here's to eating pussy." They laugh hysterically. I love the lesbians and wish them the best. We roll to Monica's crib for a nightcap. I discover Kaye does not like playing drinking games with me. Monica informs me she picked up my softball glove up after our game. This makes me happy.

Sunday. I wake up at noon with a screaming hangover. I pour a glass of water and take ibuprofen. I watch Panic Room on digital cable. I drink a glass of water. I make a trip to Home Depot to buy some sandpaper and steel wool. I drink a glass of water. I strip paint for four hours. I drink three glasses of water. My Mom calls and invites me to dinner. I drink a glass of water. I drive to my parents house and eat spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner. We discuss home improvement. I go home to play a game of College Football. Colorado State beats Wyoming 21-3. Nels picks me up for our hockey game. I tally a hat trick and an assist. I drink seven glasses of water. Mark throws a shoe at Nels's face. I come home and take a shower. I go to sleep. If anyone asks me what I did this weekend, I will say, "Nothing."

Labels: /mark, chili dog, colorado, data slaughterhouse, diy, drinking, gay joe, geekery, hockey, jake, kaye, l-i-v-i-n, lesbians, mons, nels, sg crew, sports, tyler, wedding, weekend that was

It is my first day back in the office after the HOW Design Conference in New Orleanand I have over 100 emails to sift through. While I was gone, I missed a party at CH's house. This morning he shot me an email describing what went down:

Here's a funny story from the party on Saturday.

Juck took on the role of class drunk as we were wrapping up the trivia game. I had a tiebreaker where people had to hula-hoop and do shots at the same time. After the two teams failed at it (neither were Juck's team) he decided to try it, although he wasn't supposed to or required to. He failed miserably, and as the rather small hoop consistently fell, he tried picking it up and jumping through it like performing dogs do. That failed too. No one was amused, rather, they were scared. I was convinced his weight of jumping on my wood floor was going to knock some art off the walls. Finally, tired of trying, he returned towards his seat. He appeared to trip over a Coors Light box another team was using as a trash can. Full on like Chevy Chase, he fell into our table that was covered with plates of snacks, beers, chips, dips, etc. He landed against the edge of the table breaking the fall with his forearms. All of the aforementioned food went flying everywhere, people's beers spilled into their laps, and the dip onto our white rug. After that, everyone was cracking on him unmercifully. Keep in mind; this was the same Juck whose Pakistani roommate broke my coffee table at a party last year.

As the night wore on, he drank more. I found him on the back deck later in the night in a deep discussion with Spotty and a couple other guys about "If you could suck your own dick, would you?" Not surprisingly, he was very vulgar. Guys he had just met that night were very uncomfortable. He was also loud. Very loud. My new neighborhood has a lot of little kids (2-6 years old) in it. So I asked him to keep it down, and he yells at me, "Hey, it's not my fault you moved to fucking suburbia!"

Labels: career, ch, data slaughterhouse, drinking, how design, sg crew

I arrived back in Denver today safe and primarily sound. Aside from a wicked day-long drunk followed by a slow, mind-numbing hangover, I am in good spirits and had a great time. Last night I attended the finale party hosted by a paper company (I was too drunk to care which one) where conference goers were given free reign over a warehouse where the majority of the Mardi Gras parade floats are stored. In the midst of six foot paper-mache heads of jazz music legends, sports heroes and animals, we drank and danced the night away.

Over the course of the 2003 HOW Design Conference many relationships were established and by three o'clock this morning were solidified by toasted imbibed spirits. A design posse has now been established reaching across the North American continent. There is me, Holly and Tina from Denver, Wes from New Jersey, Scott from Minneapolis, Mark from Montreal, Dave and Beatriz from New York, Stacy from Pittsburgh, Rod from New Orleans (who gets props for taking us tourists to some of the best eating establishments in town) and whoever else I forgot to mention that I may have sat next to at a session, ate fish with at a restaurant or drank with on Bourbon Street.

Although my liver hates me, the rest of me had an excellent week.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, denver, drinking, how design, scotty minnesota, travels

All is well in the Big Easy on the HOW Design Conference tip. Last night's voodoo and haunted tours were a minor disappointment. The scariest moment of the evening was being witness to a homosexual couple performing boisterous fellatio acts on each other atop a parked car on a crowded street in the French Quarter. I lost a $20 bill somewhere near Jackson Square and proceeded to drink whiskey the rest of the night. The conference thus far has been phenomenal. There is a palpable creative energy with excellent speakers like James Victore and Genevieve Gorder. This environment has not only gotten me excited about design again but has yielded two crippling hangovers.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, how design, sex, travels

New Orleans smells like a combination of stale beer, urine and vomit. You will be walking down the street and the pungent aroma assaults your nostrils and makes you want jackals to chew off your face. Other than the stench, New Orleans is a very cool town. Out of my hotel room window I can see the Mississippi River, and I am across the street from Harrah's Casino and three blocks away from the French Quarter. Last night a pack of conference attendees went down to Bourbon Street and engaged in drunken revelries until the wee hours of the morning. Tonight I am touring old haunted homes in the French Quarter and watching some crazy bastards do some voodoo shit. As if becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy, yesterday, the first person I met remarked on how humid it was. It has been raining for the entire conference thus far, and the weather reports indicate that it will continue through out the weekend. So the obvious response to the humidity question is yes, it is fucking humid out.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, drinking, how design, scotty minnesota, travels

In the morning, I am off to New Orleans and the 2003 HOW Design Conference. I have attended a HOW Design Conference before, but I have never been to the New Orleans. I hear it is a fun town that smells like garbage with blended alcoholic fruit drinks on every corner. I expect it to be humid and I am comfortable with that. I will not be comfortable, however, with other conference attendees hitting me up with small talk like "This humidity is pretty bad, right?" As a matter of fact, if anybody decides to engage me with inane humidity banter, I will be sure to punt their teeth down their throat). During the day I will be kicking it Huck Finn Off The Banks Of The Mississippi Style; easy, laid back and oblivious to the world around me. At night, I will be kicking it Girls Gone Wild Style; draining Hurricanes until I give up the ghost and flashing my nipples for insignificant plastic beads.

Unless there are computers with internet access somewhere at the conference or a comely young lass will let me borrow her laptop for a few minutes, I will be unable to post while I am in the Big Easy (Unfortunately, the company laptop is being used at another conference for some work-related bullshit. Fucking whatever). Either way, I will be pimping the old school composition book and pen to capture the moments, so rest assured the five of you will be hearing all about my New Orleans adventures.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse, drinking, how design, travels

Yesterday, a high school freshman followed me around the office for career day. She was very cool and I was impressed with her motivation and direction. When I was fifteen, the only things that interested me were loosing my virginity, smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey, throwing up all over my parents basement and getting my drivers license. I never gave much thought about a career. I only knew that I liked to draw obscene pictures of teachers in my notebooks. Many coworkers claimed I handled the mentor relationship with competent professionalism, but I think I corrupted her young mind like Socrates. Or Iron Maiden.

Labels: career, corruption, data slaughterhouse, history, music

For the Easter holiday my family convened at my aunt and uncles to dine on some cooked pig, play board games where the end result is global domination and hear my dad tell my brother-in-law to bite his ball sack at the dinner table. Speaking of pigs, my coworker is giving me a few pounds of fresh Polish sausage that her parents are sending her from Chicago. Her and her husband do not dig on the swine so they are giving it to me. I may boil that shit up and slap it on a bun with some sauerkraut and mustard. I may cut it up and throw it in with my scrambled eggs. I may even attempt to flatten it out into strips and fry it. Mmmmmm. Bacon Polish sausage.

Labels: bacon, bro-in-law, dad, data slaughterhouse, easter, family

Something great has happened at work today; I got a new(er) chair. Our technology director purchased a new comfortable leather number and she offered me her old chair. I reveled in sloppy seconds like a fat, hairy guy at a gang bang because my old chair was equipped with a low, nonadjustable back plate and a broken right arm. I wheeled that old tired bitch into an unused office where all broken-down corporate accessories go to die, shut the door and walked away with a smile, glad to be rid of it. My old chair was as uncomfortable as sex in the backseat of a 1984 Honda Accord. Currently my back is enjoying the additional support and my ass cheeks are snuggled warmly into ergonomically designed crevices. I am still holding out hope the company will come to its senses and gift its employees with some Aerons.

Labels: career, data slaughterhouse

Iraqi citizens and United States soldiers are currently "toppling" an enormous statute of Saddam Hussein in Baghdad. It took all of three weeks for coalition forces to race across Iraq and roll into the capital city. A temporary interim government will be established eventually making way for an unstable Arab democratic regime friendly to Western economic interests. Those who support the war will have an orgy freedom fest and non-war activists will go on harboring the delusion that their objections will be listened to by their government. A coworker of mine compared the liberation of Baghdad to the fall of the Berlin Wall. I then reminded her of the financial support, weapons and chemicals the United States gave Saddam over the past few decades and of the activities a unified Germany accomplished in the past ninety years (read: World War I and World War II). Sigh. Just another day in the life of an armchair anarchist.

Labels: america, data slaughterhouse, history, politics, war

Colorado is buried from the biggest snow storm to hit the state in 20 years. Work has been canceled for the past two days. I have killed time reading, watching television, playing Tenchu: Wrath of Heaven and redesigning a website. Last night, I was in the midst of posting new material to the MB, and my power went out (thank you, expensive surge protector). Sitting in the dark for a few hours, I realized two things:

1. I need to save working files on my computer more often.
2. Trapped in your house during a blizzard would be the best time to have diarrhea.

This morning I woke up, made a delicious plate of eggs and bacon and dug myself out. I started with my patio, which had been buried the night before (I shoveled this area off three times the day before). Next, I cleared the snow from behind my garage so I could back my car out. Finally, I made a path from my front door to the walkway. My neighborhood is a winter wonderland and it is still snowing.

Labels: bacon, blizzard, career, colorado, data slaughterhouse, geekery, l-i-v-i-n, snow

I am living in the waning hours of my vacation and getting woozy from the giant swig of NyQuil I just took. The only good thing about having a cold is drinking all the delicious NyQuil. Last night, after whacking down some of the green goodness, I blacked out and came too sometime this morning in the exact position I fell asleep in. NyQuil also has my two favorite preservatives in it: propylene glycol and green #3.

I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. There are two things I learned during my time off:

1. I would much rather be on vacation then work.
2. The new He-Man on Cartoon Network kicks ass. Teela has been transformed into a cock-teasing whore in a cod piece.

My time off was productive. I completed a giant painting (three 4 foot by 2 foot canvases), re-caulked my shower, wasted many hours with She Who Will Not Be Named playing Dynasty Warriors 3, read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair and I took numerous power naps.

I am now prepared to trudge back into fluorescent-lit cubicle hell a weakened, husk of a man. In actuality, my job is great, I feel refreshed and I am grateful to have work in a down economy. I am just bitching because I will miss the time off watching He-Man cartoons.

Labels: books, data slaughterhouse, geekery, l-i-v-i-n, pop culture, she who, the fairways

Everyday I carpool to work with my friend and coworker JT. It is an event filled with colorful metaphors mixed with mindless drivel about substance abuse, threats, sexual escapades, pornography, sporting events, video games and world events. We also yell out the window at bad drivers like a pair of crazed vigilantes. Every so often, a gem escapes in conversation that is worthy of praise and respect. Yesterday afternoon JT dropped the term chumming the waters to describe masturbation. The phrase's beauty and elegance are truly something of wonder and henceforth I will be using it until my dying day.

Labels: a-town, data slaughterhouse, l-i-v-i-n, random

In Asia, men are surgically implanting pearls in their cocks, women are circumcising their husbands with scissors, nut vendors are dressed like cheap whores and the Japanese are developing a perfect toilet. A glimpse into Asian culture is sometimes more bizarre than tripping acid at a Stryper concert. Take Asian porn for example. Imagine a woman seated in the middle of a room. Surrounding her are numerous naked men, masturbating like circus monkeys. When they are ready to unleash the dogs of war they use her body as a landing pad. This is called bukkake, and these videos are wildly popular in Southeast Asia (if you want a bukkake link, tough shit. The MB does not promote circle jerks unless we are talking about the punk band). My coworker Greg said it best: "If I did not have a girlfriend and a healthy fear of diseases, Southeast Asia would be a lot of fun."

Labels: data slaughterhouse, music, perversion, poop, pop culture, porn, whores

My new year started the exact same way my past six did; I was intoxicated, somebody passed me a glass, glasses or bottle of cheap champagne and somebody in my general vicinity kissed my face. My job has kept me busier than your mother in a roomful of horny sailors waving one-dollar bills and cucumbers. I usually come home from work burned out. I just want to eat a plate of tacos, play a few games of NHL 2002, watch some smut and then go upstairs to bed and fall asleep without incident.

Labels: apathy, data slaughterhouse, drinking, new years, porn, tacos