The grocery list / Mildred Rampage

milk

eggs

butter

soda

bread

lunch meat

frozen pizzas

cereal

apples

yogurt

cheese

granola bars

peanut butter

crackers

fancy/complicated dish to pass at the Larson's baby shower (seared or braised duck?)

-1 (8-to 10-ounce) boneless duck breast with skin
-1 tablespoon olive oil
-1 shallot, finely chopped
-1/4 cup tawny Port
-1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
-3 cups torn frisée
-1 tablespoon sliced almonds, lightly toasted

baby shower gift (breast pump or overpriced building blocks?)

$50 bottle of wine 

drop off sweater vest at dry cleaners

catch up on New Yorker articles (for conversational purposes)

get a hair cut

shave

do some sit-ups

work on fake laugh

get a run down on names of Larson's asshole friends

get phone # of that shady guy Phil knows

fake name (Lester something?)

fake passport

new SSN

paper shredder

use of public library computer to research countries with lax work visa policies

library card (under fake name (Lester Higgins?))

one-way ticket to Madagascar (boat ride to Cuba?)

cash

4 days of provisions

-bottled water

-power bars

-socks

-duct tape

-signal flares(?)

hair dye

colored contact lenses

prosthetic chin

gun

Epitaph / Reynold Lispensey

When this realm has thus passed;
and the younglings grown old;
there'll be no truer words;
than "so I've been told".

About me / Leonard Hatred

I was born and raised in Minnesota but have hung my hat in Brooklyn, NY since April Fools Day 2001.
There was a period of several years of my life where every couple months or so I would wake up in the morning and couldn't shake the thought that Bob Hope was going to die that day. I was certain of it. The day would pass. Nothing. Two months later it would happen again. I'd hit the alarm clock and just know that today would be the day. I'd be sure to check the evening news and again, nothing. Then Bob Hope died on July 27, 2003. I didn't have that "death of Bob" feeling on that day and haven't had it since. This probably doesn't mean anything but I figured it was worth mentioning.
I have wife (fellow midwesterner) named Sarah, a dog (boxer) named Kaizer and a daughter (caucasian) named Piper. They are all pretty great. They turn heads. I love them dearly despite the fact that I cannot make them laugh. Luckily I've been blessed with a unique gift of finding myself absolutely hilarious so it all works itself out.
I walk really fast and I most definitely eat too fast. I also have a hard time consistently spelling 'definitely', 'their', 'restaurant', and 'consistently'. Luckily I married someone who also walks very fast and eats too fast which makes for quick and efficient dinners in restaraunts (damn) within walking distance. On the flip side of that coin my wife is a soft talker and I've often been accused of being hard of hearing so when conversing I find myself often saying "What?" or "I can't hear what you're saying" which leads to endless stream of inefficient and tedious verbal exchanges that is sure to one day drive our children crazy.
My favorite food would have to be a well made bacon cheeseburger (medium rare) but I'm convinced a talented cook could do something special with a pork chop that would change my mind. I used to be a gin-and-tonic sort but over the years have come to curse the hard stuff and have switched allegiances to the world of ales and lagers.
What else.
One day when I was 12 I was shooting hoops in my driveway and I made a deal with God that if I could make a shot from the sidewalk I'd make it to the NBA. Swish. It wasn't until the buzzer sounded after my last game my senior year of high school (1 point, 4 fouls) that I realized the dream was over. As I walked off the court the song "Ironic" by Alanis Morrissette played in my head for some reason even though there was nothing ironic about it.
My loftiest achievement was installing a doggie door using nothing but a small hand say that leads to the back yard of my apartment. I've never had to take the dog outside since. If you were stop by I'd be sure to show it to you. You'd be impressed.
I faked sick most of 5th grade. I was misdiagnosed with encephalitis (inflammation of the brain) and ended up having to go to summer school lest I repeat the school year. My class dedicated the annual school play to my speedy recovery.
I work at an online publishing company which means that I could talk your ear off about things like third party discrepancies, 728x90s, flash features, on schedules indicators (OSIs), search engine optimization, super rich media, house ads, RFIs, unique users, and net effective cpms. I also have been known to do stand-up comedy and could tell you jokes about proximity to Tom Hanks, what the first astronauts probably packed,Orbitz's long confirmation numbers, and the hiker who had to cut off his own arm.
I can consistently make my sister laugh by making an extremely ugly face but I suspect that it's not so much the face itself that gets her as it is that I tell her that it's the face I make to myself in the mirror when I'm really depressed.
I enjoy watching the movie 'Titanic' with others. When that scene comes where Leo is handcuffed to that pipe after he was accused of stealing that diamond I tell those around me that "I could totally get out of that".
I tend to avoid cracks when walking on the sidewalk - so much so that I think I would rank in the top 3% or so of people in my age bracket who've lived in comparable urban environments in terms of fewest cracks stepped on; lifetime.
One day when I was riding in a car I was trying to tell someone something I had heard about Emmanuel Lewis and I said the word 'Webster'. It just so happened that at the exact same time there was a song on the radio that also used the word 'Webster'. I told everyone in the car that me and the guy on the radio just said the word 'Webster' at the same time. How fucking crazy is that? No one was that impressed. To this day no one I tell that story to find it nearly as remarkable as me and I'm perpetually bitter about it.
I enjoy writing and take great pride in updating my blog (http://richzeroth.blogspot.com/) as often as possible. I hope to one day be contacted by a wealthy madman or an off-kilter publisher looking to fork over lots of money to continue to jab at the keyboard so that I might spend my remaining days in this realm wearing an old flannel, sitting on a deck, smoking a cigarette, listening to 'Hotel Yorba' as a robot reads my mind and dictates short stories that spur some sort of half-assed revolution.
My pet peeves include Mo Rocca, people who sock me on the upper arm to get my attention, people who re-ask me if I've seen a movie after I've already said I haven't seen it ("Have you seen ET?" "No." "You haven't seen ET?"), and people who say that no two snowflakes are alike (prove it) although people rarely say that.
I'm a huge Green Bay Packer fan but have never seen a game at Lambeau Field. Tickets would be a great gift idea.
I respect a good beard, a good story, and a good laugh.

Shark sandwich / Phyllis Math

A couple times a week I pack a lunch.  If time permits I try to do it the night before, which is more psychological than anything, creating the facade of having an extra five minutes to sleep in the next morning.  I go with the standard sandwich.  Nothing fancy.  As I pull out the bread and lunch meat from the fridge I usually ask my wife if she would like one as well.  She usually says yes.  Mustard for her. Mayo for me.  Pickles on both if we happened to have remembered to pick them up at the grocery store.  After assembling the sandwiches and wrapping them in aluminum foil they look exactly the same so I label them with a magic marker.  On my wife's sandwich I always draw a big 'S'.  On my sandwich I mix it up.  I try to make her laugh.  Once I drew a thunderbolt, one time a gun, another time a stick man with a large penis wearing a jet pack.  Anything semi-masculine and/or borderline offensive is fair game.  I then stack the sandwiches in the fridge with my wife's on top.  By the time I go to retrieve my lunch the next morning Sarah has left for work and has taken her sandwich.  I open the fridge and see my scribbled dump trunk, sword, or panther.

At first I conveniently assumed that Sarah noticed my high jinx while packing her lunch and that the site of the drawings, at the very least, made her smile and reflect on the nurturing and humorous man she was blessed with as a husband.  A man always packed with little surprises.  A man who somehow finds creative ways to make her laugh and appreciate the absurdity of life.  Sometimes I even went so far to think that that smile stuck with her whole walk to the subway, making her commute seem half as long as it was.  And perhaps later that day, when she pulled out the sandwich from her bag she'd again remember my drawing and couldn't help but letting an audible laugh escape.  Her coworkers would ask her what was so funny and she'd tell them about the hilarious drawings as they wondered why they're husbands never did anything cute or spontaneous for them.  They'd all be jealous.  I'd imagine one day I'd go with her to a work function of some sort and after getting introduced I'll be bombarded with "so you're the thoughtful sandwich sketcher", "Sarah's told me all about your silly drawings - what a guy", or "Heard about the swastika sandwich.  Nice to finally meet you.  Creative and handsome".

But here's the thing - to this day she's never said anything about the drawings.  

I suppose it's possible she sees her 'S' sammie, grabs it and heads out the door without ever noticing mine.  Possible.   Perhaps she sees my drawings, thoroughly enjoys them, but forgets to mention it.  Not likely.  Maybe she sees them but just doesn't think they are funny.  Impossible.  Fact is I have no idea.  Deep and vast are the motives and deductions of the woman's mind.

So I wait.  I continue to draft crude pictures on aluminum foil and wait.  I hope she says something soon.  On Monday it'll be a fighter jet and on Tuesday it'll be a moustache but after that I'm completely out ideas.  She can pack her own lunch. 

Advice from an old man / Ralph Rallory

Jesus Christ.  Where to begin.  .  . 

First thing you gotta do is listen.  Just listen goddamnit.  Dipshits and know-it-alls are jabbering away every which way you turn and while a good portion of it is bullshit some of those dipshits are fucking geniuses and some of the know-it-alls are just that - they know it all.  Your brain, your intuition will tell you which is which and who is who.  So you gotta listen to yourself too, if that makes any sense.  Some people say that you gotta listen to your heart, follow your heart, do whatever it is your heart tells you.  Now that, my friend, is a load.  If my years have taught me anything it's that the heart is good for nothing more than pumping blood, and sometimes it doesn't do that all that well.  Your head is the key.  Your goddamned brain.  You understand?  I can't believe I have to waste my breath explaining that the brain trumps the heart but such is the world I guess.  You keep your heart on the back burner and listen to your mind, your intuition, and your half way home.

Oh, and shut the fuck up for awhile.  The mind is always trying to get its two cents in but most young folks are too busy running their mouths to let it soak in.  Fucking go for a walk.  Hop in the car and drive to some distant town and don't talk to anybody for three days.  Don't worry about missing work or who's gonna take your kids to school or any of that shit.  Just get off the grid for a bit.  It's important.  What's that they say?  Sometimes you gotta step away in order to come back.  Something like that.  Anyway those are wise words.  Give your head time to say what it has to say.  I guarantee it won't tell you to worry about what your gonna have for dinner, how big of a TV to buy, or whether or not to refinance your home.  Go fishing, it will probably say.  Ha!

You can't be afraid to piss people off, to disappoint those that count on you.  My daddy was one tough SOB but I'll be damned if he didn't provide for his family and break his back day in and day out at his own expense.  He died a sad man although he'd never be man enough to admit it.  Now I grew up thinking that's what a man was.  I lived my days toeing the line.  Went through two wives and five kids, same as him.  Doing whatever it took to keep them happy and taking whatever shit it was they'd toss my way and tried to turn in into ice cream instead of tossing it back.  Well fuck that.  I realize now that both my daddy and me were bonafide pussies.  My daddy died with no enemies and not on ounce of joy in his heart.  And now here I am at the end of my life staring at the same goddamned fate, still afraid piss people off.  What I'm saying is that there is no difference between what a man should be, what a son should be, what a woman should be, or what a daughter should be.  We're all people made of the same blood and guts.  Simple as that.  It does you no good bending over backwards, making sacrifices for your family when they don't bend back in return.  Sure they'll be tough times.  Times when they think your being selfish, times when they think you're putting yourself before something they'll call "the greater good".  You tell them to look in the mirror.  If your family is worth a damn they'll come to understand that they signed up for this shit for life, through good times and bad, just like the vow says.  I guess what I'm saying is that spending your life trying to keep the path of of those the Lord's deemed as yours fixed to the bright and shiny isn't your sole responsibility.  That shit works both ways.  And you'll learn that forgiveness is a beautiful thing while apologies are hollow, vacant utterances.  Because when you piss off those closest to you and refuse to apologize, forgiveness is the only thing that'll mend that tear.  It's a force more powerful than hate, more powerful than love.  I'd go so far as to say forgiveness magnifies love.  And love is something that starts with #1, with yourself.  

What else.

Save your money.  Fucking kids walking around with phones that hold a million songs and tell you where the nearest movie theater is where you can spend $10 to see a blue alien robot eat a goddamned car.  Your gonna need money later to survive.  You're gonna need money for lawyers, for doctors, and for land.  A comfortable pair of cotton pants, a warm shirt with a pocket, and a house with a working fridge and shitter is all you need.  Buy that and save the rest for when you need to battle the bills in the mailbox.  Life ain't cheap.  The body breaks down and your enemies will try to milk you for all you got.  Keep a leg up by taking walks by the lake, spending time at the library.  That shit's free.  Oh and you'll need shoes I guess.  Get some good sturdy shoes.

I'll end on this.  I know I mention God and the Lord and maybe I shouldn't.  Religion ain't nothing anybody can speak to with certainty in my opinion.  I've read the Bible.  I suggest you do the same.  Beyond that I think it best to let the trials life throw in your direction and the people you meet along the way determine your credence in terms of the afterlife and the meaning behind it all.  Who is anyone to say how every man, let alone any man, can be saved lest he lived every man's life, seen what he's seen?  That goes for St. Peter and whoever Mohammed's right hand man was.  I will say that adopting a certain belief out of fear of the repercussions of the alternative is a coward's way to live.  In fact I can't call that living at all.  I guarantee that whoever is running the show doesn't see any honor in that.  Pure chicken shit.  I'll leave it at that.  I'll leave it all at that.

Order dessert.

Get a dog.

That's about it.

The project / Alvin Riddle

Corporate initiative for phase implementation of the department's primary sales system dubbed S.T.A.G.E.

Gotta book some facetime with the major stakeholders to ensure all interested parties are on the same page.

So I ping Jim Hoggart to block an hour in Lynn's schedule to review the current language in the initial client spec.

We go over best practices, run some figures, schedule break-out sessions, and reply with a request for a proof of concept.

Then I get a call from edit who has concerns of bandwidth so I spearhead an inquiry of resources in-house.

It's escalated to mission critical and leveraged to Barry who calls a meeting that I decline with the click of a mouse.

Phase 1 is nothing more than requirement gathering in hopes of effectively addressing the low hanging fruit.

Shouldn't take more than a week but I allow a full month in order to get sign off from the big-shot suits.

Phase 2 has twelve action items, half of which are not scalable, so I, with a full plate, declare a reach of critical mass.

This raises red flags so I have to take it offline and whiteboard it out out which is a pain in the ass.

Phase 3 is contingent on due diligence from production who must scrub the data and expedite process flow.

This dovetails into Phase 4 and the official baton pass to sales but not before we verify that our ducks are in a row.

I make it clear that system is by no means turnkey so we keep on a staff in case things go awry.

But at the end of the day the net result is growth, the net-net of which is an upshoot in your ROI.

The Mikers' Creed / Gil Ball

I believe in Big Mike;

the Brother of Time and Nephew of Space;

the Master of Mists and Maths;

and in little mike version 2.0;

Big Mike's only kid, world record holder in the triple-jump;

who was conceived on a twirling mountain that was underwater and on fire;

born of a woman with two vaginas;

who was teased mercilessly by Science Steve for his lisp and lame left foot;

who eventually killed and buried himself;

who partook in rigorous physical and speech therapy in the grave;

and came back 6 weeks later by shooting himself out of the underwater twirl-fire mountain.

He shot up to Space and fist bumped Big Mike;

and landed in the Auditorium where he placed second in the Science fair, narrowly beating Science Steve and his potato compass.

And I believe middle Mike, who came from the smaller and weaker of the vaginas;

even though he doesn't do much.

I believe in the annual underwater spinning science fair;

the Fellowship of the Triple-Jumpers;

the condemnation of Steves;

the idea of second chances;

and life everlasting.

Amen

Curtain Rods / Candace Birdsnatch

The curtain rod in the nursery sags with the weight of the makeshift curtain. It’s a piece-of-shit curtain rod so it’s not surprising. I bought it at the local hardware store for $7.99 to replace the thought to be even shittier, makeshift curtain rod. To even call that monstrosity a curtain rod was bold as it was nothing more than two wooden poles glued, then screwed, then glued again, together – not my proudest handiwork (but close). About a month ago the glue/screw job gave way and the whole apparatus collapsed. No one was harmed but panic ensued. "What if somebody had been standing there?" "What if the baby had been standing there?" "What if someone had been standing there with the baby?" I briefly considered pointing out how difficult it would be to stand directly underneath the curtain rod - as the curtain would be in the way - but I bit my tongue. If I've learned anything since becoming a father it's to choose my battles wisely. As a reminder to my wife that, while shoddy at best and potentially dangerous, my handcrafted curtain rod served its purpose valiantly, I waited a full week before purchasing this sorry excuse for a replacement. It was the only one in the store that was long enough. Metal, but yet flimsy somehow. Extended to the full 144 inches that the box it came in said it could cover. I look at it now and realize that it too will fall and I'll be faced with "the curtain rod situation" once again. And that's fine. I'll make do. I haven't seen my last shitty curtain rods. The cycle's just begun. The sooner I come to understand that the happier I'll be.

Things I said to my wife last night while she was trying to watch the season finale of "The Bachelor" / Darlene Botch

-You hear about this guy's ex-wife? I guess she's like a total bitch and not even hot.

-It's totally screwed up how they make you shower before you go into pools.

-How much food do you think I ate today in pounds?

-What would you do if I brought home the DVD for the movie 'Australia' tomorrow?

-I bet you I could totally do a back flip.

-So daylight savings is coming up this weekend. Gotta remember to change the clocks. . . I guess we got time.

-I think we should get the same haircut.

-Guess who I saw on the subway today? The dad from 'Juno'. Yep.

-So I'm thinking about taking up boxing. Maybe kickboxing.

-Why do people tie their old magazines into little bundles? Is there some sort of law?