A Definitive Guide To The Politics of Shitting At Work

Starting a new job is difficult, settling in takes time, and the interim between "new guy" and "that guy" is cattywampus. Determining when and where to take a shit -creating a "poop schedule"- is essential, as not establishing one prolongs "uneasiness". In the long-term, not having a consistent "window of oppurpoonity" can lead to disillusionment, despair, and the possibility of shitting your pants at work (i.e. social death). For those of you looking to start a new job, what follows is a list of guidelines to help you.

Be Mindful Of Others

Your new coworkers already have a consistent poop schedule. Knowing when they poop is the key to knowing when you can poop. As the "new guy" (if you're reading this, I'm assuming you're male. As we know: 'girls don't poop'. Hence, the information provided below is of no consequence to the female reader. An upcoming article entitled, "Where Do I Lay My Golden Eggs?"will offer advice to women on how to address their unique condition in the workplace) you do not want to find yourself "storming in" or disrupting a coworker's personal journey. Doing so can lead to tension between you and said pooper. Successive interruptions can quickly earn you a reputation as a "maverick"; creating fear and distrust. If you continue this course, news of your recklessness can spread through the office, reaching senior management or HR, and resulting in possible disciplinary action or termination.

"Location, Location, Location"

Depending on the layout of your office, you may have more than one place to poop. If this is true of your workplace, consider yourself lucky, as this distributes your coworkers, and eases the pressure. Take stock of your fellow coworkers. Notice where their workstation is, and use that to inform your choice. Some offices have tragic floorplans; placing the single, attractive worker's station adjacent to a single occupant restroom. If this is the case, heed this advice: assume all sounds from this restroom are audible, all odors are traceable, that everyone in that vicinity knows how long you're in there (rule of thumb: more than 3 minutes equals "you're taking a shit, I'm picturing it in my mind, and we're never having sex"), and avoid using this restroom. Playing it safe in this fashion will help your odds of having intercourse at the holiday party. If this is your only option, I suggest you shit before or after work, during your lunch break, or not at all. Alternatively, if you harbor no attraction for this person (or any of their friends) make them The One: the one person you subject to your foulness on a daily basis. There's no substitute for a daily dose of schadenfreude.

Don't Laugh

The first two guidelines should help you to avoid acknowledging or interacting with a majority of your coworkers (as they abide by these rules). But as there are no guarantees in life, there are none in the bathroom. Inevitably, you will find yourself in the unenviable situation of sharing the bathroom with a superior. The shit habits of upper management are highly unpredictable: they tend to be older, less inhibited about shitting, with erratic schedules, a rich diet, and a stressful job. Eventually, these elements coalesce into a "perfect shitstorm", that lands them in the stall next to you. First, I suggest coughing, sniffling, rustling the newspaper, or tearing off some T.P. to alert them of your presence. This is not to deter them -that is impossible; they plan to unleash- this is simply a way to avoid giving them the "silent treatment", which is creepy. Prepare yourself: your boss is an unabashedly noisy shitter. Expect many plops and pops. As Americans, our upbringing has taught us to regard these sounds as the height of comedic genius; except when it's your boss, and it's their ass making those sounds. Do not under any circumstances, snicker, giggle, chortle, or guffaw. Such a response could quickly find your personal affects in a box and you being escorted out by security. Do not laugh at your boss' diahrea farts.

Keep an Open Mind To Seize the Opportunity

Sometimes, you need to make the most of situation. If you find yourself sharing a stall with a coworker, listen closely to understand their ways. We weren't all taught the same skills growing up, so it's possible the person next to you knows a few new tricks. If it's a superior next to you, show them you've got the right stuff: push hard, piss like you're trying to erode the porcelain, and take short confident wipes using minimal paper. Exude confidence, experience, and adaptability at the shitter. It's a way to communicate non-verbally that you have management potential. While it may not come up in your review, you can be sure it crossed their mind.

Redefining Luxury In San Francisco

Normally, I'm not one to boast about my latest-and-greatest, so what I'm about to say may surprise you...
(Drum roll, please.)
I am now, and have been for some time, the proud -proud- owner of a luxury automobile.
You read that correctly. Luxury.
I know what you're going to say...
"Luxury automobile? You can't afford a luxury automobile."
You're right: I can't. Not now; maybe never. That I can't afford one doesn't mean I don't have one.
Just so we understand each other: I'm not talking about your run-of-the-mill, namby-pamby, 'hey girls, check me out' luxury automobile. I'm talking about something completely different. Allow me to illustrate:
Most luxury automobiles, rouse feelings of inadequacy in others. Mine does not.
When parked, most luxury automobiles attract gawkers. Mine does not.
When handing the keys to a valet, a luxury car owner might say, "scratch it, I cut you. Dent it, I keel you". I will never say that.
If I see bird shit falling, I don't dive on my hood.
Unlike most luxury automobiles, mine does nothing to compensate for my tiny penis, or my receding hairline.
In a drag race, a 1989 Toyota Tercel would blow the doors off my luxury automobile.
I repeat: It does nothing to compensate for my tiny penis (That's false advertising anyway. Next time you go to a Mercedes dealership, ask the dealer, "can I rub my penis against it?" Spoiler: they won't let you. That's because they don't want you to know until after you've paid 60k that it doesn't actually work. Then, when you try to return the car, they won't let you. Why? You rubbed your penis on it, that's why. Classic scam).
With all this talk of "doesn't", you're probably wondering what my luxury automobile "does" have. I'll tell you.
But I still haven't finished the doesn't's.
My luxury automobile doesn't have leather seats. This is not for any political reason, but because the manufacturer doesn't offer it.
My luxury automobile doesn't have AC. Another feature not offered,
As of February, my luxury automobile no longer has "heat"; which has nothing to do with the manufacturer, per se.
My luxury automobile doesn't have carpet. Instead, it has a synthetic ploymer called plastic (fact: carpet comes from baby hair).
The key doesn't work on the passenger side. This is a sort of bonus feature.
In the 10 years I've owned my luxury automobile, I've installed 3 stereo systems. Aesthetes deemed each not luxurious enough for my luxury automobile. Subsequently, each was removed.
Now let's discuss what my luxury automobile does have:
My luxury automobile does have a massive dent on the passenger side. I added this feature myself, a few years ago. Around '03, I decided to have some Mexican guys drill holes into the dent. When they finished that, I had them primer over it. Big, primered dent with a bunch'a holes in it. Luxury.
I had long-term ambiance enhancement installed on the interior. Over the last decade, all the lights on the dashboard slowly dimmed. One sexy night, they died.
"Sexy + Luxury = Suxury."
Driving my luxury automobile in extreme hot or cold makes me feel rugged. In the summer, when everyone else is driving "comfortably" with the AC "on", I'm peeling my sweaty back from vinyl seats. Should I mention buttsweat? No? I got that too. If it's more than an hour of summer driving, I need a full change of clothes. Luxury.
Reading this over, I realize there's not much about my luxury automobile that's luxurious. I ask you to consider this one last feature: bumper-to-bumper "don't give a shit". If you're not familiar with this rather extensive feature, here's how it works:

Wash my car? Don't give a shit.
Scratch my car? Don't give a shit.
Dent: "
Break into my car (what're you gonna steal, an apple core?) Don't give a shit.
Hit my car? You think I'm gonna fix that bumper? Give me money (Don't give a shit).
I can go all day, but that's the gist of it.

"In this city, an automobile you don't give a shit about is a luxury automobile." (Jello Biafra)

Couple O' Dudes (With A Bad Attitude)

Walking down Irving, I see two dudes. One: tall skinny black guy, The Other: little fat white fuck with a beard. Both of them shitfaced (it's 10am) with that signature unwashed look about them. Take that back: One's filth was more by association to The Other. All that was missing from my checklist was the unmistakable fragrance: "Churn," I think it's called; the scent of a full grown pantspooper.

As they approach, I can tell The Other's Butthead to the One's Beavis. The Other and I are on a collision course; eventually, one of us has to move. I'm on autopilot, thinking more about my disappointing $12 breakfast than the possibility of a physical altercation with a filthy person. That's when, instead of yielding, little fat white fuck decides to be a badass. "Hell's Angels are in town! Get the fuck out of my way, *Miller Highlife!" and does that shoulder-check thing he saw on DeGrassi Jr. High as I try to squeeze past.

I didn't react so it didn't escalate. We continued our separate paths. On that alone, it's nothing worth blogging about (what is? correct answer: nothing); just another reminder that some people suck. The reason I mention it is that it's my most recent experience where, replaying the incident in my mind afterward, I imagine things differently:

EXT: Day.

Ninja Bill walks down Irving street, minding his own. From the opposite direction, two intoxicated miscreants approach. As they pass Ninja Bill, the shorter, wobblier, more fuckface-looking of the two shoulder checks Ninja Bill.

Intoxicated Miscreant #1:

Hell's Angels are in town!

Get the fuck outta my way,

Miller Highlife.

Losing his balance, Ninja Bill falls into a woman carrying a newborn baby. The Woman loses her grip of the baby, sending it airborne. Crashing into a fruit stand, Ninja Bill sees the falling baby, extends his arms just in time, and catches her. Cradling the baby, Ninja Bill gets up. He hands the baby back to it's mother.

Ninja Bill:

She's okay.

Woman:

OMG! My baby! Thank you, sir.

You're completely awesome.

Ninja Bill:

I know!

watch this.

A small crowd of onlookers has formed. Their timing is excellent, as they are about to witness a memorable display of martial arts virtuosity...

I'm on day-two of a two-day hangover. I don't have it in me right now to finish this, and I'm sort of stuck on ideas of how to finish it without it reading like the work of an eighth grader. As it stands, I don't think it's possible. Also, right now, my bosses are in a conference room directly behind me. If they felt like looking they could probably see what I'm typing. I really don't want to explain "Ninja Bill" to someone who signs my paycheck.

*Disappointingly, this was not a non sequitor shout-out to Miller Highlife. I was wearing a Miller Highlife vest at the time. This was just his way of showing affection. Something, he picked up from his close friend, George W. Bush, no doubt. "Miller highlife vest, huh?" Yes, I know: very ironic, and very hip (circa 2002).

You Got 4, Maybe 5 Types Of People, Which One Are You Today?

Really, it's that simple. To find out who's who, here's what you'll need: a three-storey ascent, and the option of a) stairs or, 2) escalator.

Caveat: I haven't taken an escalator anywhere outside North America, and I don't spend my weekends riding the escalators in Bakersfield. As such, I am limiting my area of "expertise" to what I observe five days a week: the eastbound escalators on the north side of Market st. at the Embarcadero BART station on weekdays between "please God, kill me!" and "please God, kill them"; or between 8:00am and 8:15am.

Those unfamiliar with the basic layout of BART in downtown SF: Market street runs in a straight line from Van Ness (befoooore that even, yes) to the Ferry Building. The BART and MUNI systems run underneath Market; MUNI's two levels below Market; BART one below MUNI. Yes, it is quite different from listening to NPR while sipping a soy-latte in your Jaguar convertable on your way to catch the ferry in Marin. Nice observation.

To get from the BART platform to street level, there are two sets of stairs/escalators. The first and longer of the two starts at the very bottom and goes up two levels to the "main" platform. From the main platform, a shorter sets takes you up to the street. (sidenote: for a person hoping that "stairs vs. escalator" will offer conclusive evidence that people are generally one type of person or the other, the option of changing modes 2/3 of the way to the top is challenging. If not tackled properly and with deft precision, it creates a convoluted gray area, which could lead one to dismiss these findings, concluding that people are 'complicated', and that this "essay" and the person presenting it (me) is "gay". I will ignore this with the hope that it's early in the morning when you're reading this, you're not up for something "exhaustive" and you'll just forget about it, and let me slide... me penis into your butt. Shhhh.)

Each station provides an elevator, which lazy people are not allowed to use.

Caveat #2: I am not including those persons incapable of exercising their will in this regard under the assumption that if they could then they would fall in with one of the 20-25 separate categories which I will now describe.

Okay... so you exit the train at Embarcadero. Unless you fucked up, you got off the train to go up to Market and Drumm. How you choose to get your body from BART to Market and Drumm. says a lot about who you are at this moment.

When faced with the choice of stairs or escalator, if you choose escalator, you must first enter the back of the line of other people also waiting to use the escalator. Sometimes, this line is long. It is also slow; roughly the speed of the escalator (surprise!). One can surmise that more people choose the escalator, hence: line. You can also conclude that most people "using" the escalator are actually riding the escalator; i.e. they stand on it passively until it reaches the top.

I know: what a bunch of no good, lazy fucks. Glad I'm not one of them.

Interestingly, on the occasion of a hiccup in the BART system, I haven't noticed a marked increase in stair use, suggesting the social stigma of The Tardyslip is not pervasive among today's adult workforce; as it isn't among today's schoolchildren (The failure of the tardy system in American schools is a blight on the institution... and the subject of future discussion).

As you could easily guess: no one has ever waited in line to climb the stairs. No one ever will. That's because each upward escalator has its own nuclear power generator keeping it going all the time, no matter what. Gavin and his peeps know that if people are stuck with climbing those stairs, his chances of becoming Governor are nil (The smear commercials are all ready to go.). People will see the line for stairs and go, "guess I'm not goin' to work today". The only limitations stair climbers face are those of strength relative to size, and their willingness to lift their legs to get from from 'A' to 'B'.

The choice of stairs or escalator is straightforward -it's black or white. As in, black people use the escalator because they're lazy, and white people use the stairs because they're insane... Shockingly, there does exist a middle ground between the two, the mulatto. Escalator users have the option of using the left side (or passing lane) and actually climbing its stairs. At this point, it should come no surprise to know that more people choose to stand on the escalator; as it does all the work for them (and who likes working if you don't have to?). Others decide that through collaboration -using their strength and the 'strength' of the machine- that they can maximize efficiency and reach the top sooner; without the nasty buttsweat, crotchstank, phlegm, and red face stair climbers develop by the time they reach the top. Being equal parts optimist and pessimist, I wouldn't be surprised if on days when BART is running late, the number of people using the escalator increases; though I'd be equally unsurprised if it didn't.

I'm feeling kind of done with this. I'm sure you're feeling done reading this. I'm gonna stop for now, and either continue with Part II on Monday, or say fuck it, and write about what ever I feel like writing about. I leave it up to the fans: if you want to read the exciting conclusion vote "yes", if you'd sooner read the ingredients on a can of SPAM, vote "no". If no one votes, I'm going to assume it's because no one is reading, and I will be right.

I love being right.

An Otherwordly Steak Experience Awaits You!

" the Best Tri-Tip on the Planet!"
Reads the advertisement outside the Buckhorn Grill. From a few feet back, "the" and "on the", both paler in color, and smaller in type (as I have so faithfully recreated above) almost disappear, while "Best", "Tri-Tip", and "Planet" jump out.

I pass this advertisement daily. Each time, I can't resist ignoring "the" and "on the" and imagining the sign says "Best Tri-Tip Planet". Like, it's a planet, floating in space, made of meat. Of all the meat planets in all the billions of galaxies in the universe, this particular meat planet, is the most tender, and juicy of all (at least, that's what the Intergalactic Federation thinks. The same guys who gave Palace Steakhouse on Mission and Cesar Chavez "3 stars" on yelp. They wouldn't know a good steak if they crashed into it!). When inhabitants of the neighboring civilization demand steak, they send their excavation crew. Once they've landed on its charred, fragrant surface, they immediately get to work: drilling. Deep below the crust, they plunge a long meat thermometer, hoping that finally, finally, they've found the elusive "rare" cluster.

"Rejoice! The temperature reads 76 kleegans*!"

"At long last, or search is over. Lord Infarction will be pleased."

A deep rumble...

"Permission to speak, sir"

"Permission granted. What do those knobs and thingy-ma-bobs indicate?"

"Something big, sir. Sir, I think we may penetrated into an underground reservoir of..."

A thick stream of Au Jus shoots fourth.

"Permission to writhe in agony, sir!"

Permission granted.

And blah, blah, blah. I'm still tweaking the script. Bruckheimer's peeps say he's interested. Bruce "what'chou talkin' 'bout" Willis has signed on. Aerosmith has some touchy-feely tepid turd of a power ballad ready to go...

So basically, I'm set (for life).

*approximately 120-125 degrees.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Bad Writer Scorned

Listen Up, Men: Yer all Hella Dumb

In today's "MSN Today" section, an article entitled, "The Male Brain Explained: Why He Can't Remember Your Birthday And More", Laura Schaefer -with the help of today's leading neuroscientists- breaks it down for the ladies; explaining why us men are, like, so fucking stupid.

Let's examine this fine article piece by piece; so we may appreciate all its depth and complexity.

"Women have puzzled over it for years—why the heck do men do the things they do?"

Great start! I mean, for real, Laura -why do men do all those inexplicable things like take showers (just like you), eat lunch (just like you), go to work (just like you), drive cars (just like you), invest in 401(k) plans ("shopping!"), and come november 2nd, vote for Obama (Schaefer: "I'm McCain in the membrane")? What goes (or doesn't go) through their heads?

Continuing:

"Why do they profess their love for you one minute, then ignore you the next (say, when an Attila the Hun special turns up on TV)?"

Sounds like Ms. Schaefer is writing from experience. Sounds like someone's got the blues: the "my man said he loved me a minute ago, but now he's watching The History Channel like someone who doesn't love me, so I ask again, and he just looks back and smiles, but doesn't SAY he loves me AGAIN, so he must not" blues.

'Why can they not remember our birthdays? Let science explain some of these conundrums—and help you rev up your relationships!"

First, "Why can they not remember our birthdays" is a terrible sentence. Whoever let that one slide through is a not a good editor. Also,I don't think "not remember[ing]" (i.e. forgetting) someone's -anyone's- birthday qualifies as a conundrum. If you forget someone's birthday it's becuase you/'re a) busy, b) remembered, but you were too lazy to jump on it, and forgot, or c) didn't forget; you just don't care. Any of these answers will do anything but "rev up" your relationship. Unless by 'rev up' you mean 'end'.

Moving on:

"Be patient with his memory. The hippocampus, where initial memories are formed, occupies a smaller percent of the male brain than the female brain. If on your first date he can't remember where you work, even though you told him all about it when you met, just remember that size matters … hippocampus size, that is. Don't take it personally."

I'll give you a second to savor that tasty morsel...

(Important tip: when writing a patronzing online articles for women about men, be sure to pepper it with hi-larious dick jokes. It's a sure-fire way to keep them double-clicking their mouse.)

Yes, the male brain is like a toaster. Don't stand there with your arms crossed tapping your foot, waiting for the answer to pop out like a warm strudel, be patient. Also, depending on the "darkness", or "inanity" of the question you ask, you must adjust your time expectation accordingly.

Oh, and also: that night you met at the bar and he came up to you all shitfaced and bought you a drink and asked where you worked, and you told him that you work in blah-blah? He wasn't listening. He was staring at your tits. Yours, or the girl's behind you. So give his hippocampus a break, will ya? Everytime he thinks of where you work, he will remember your (or her) tits, and how great they looked that night. I fully admit to the doucheyness of this last remark, but goddamnit, it's the truth.

"Oh, and don't be surprised when, months down the line, he has no clue you've just changed your hair."

This one makes my head hurt! If I'm understanding this sentence: she is warning the female reader not to take umbrage when months after said reader cuts her hair if her male partner fails not only to not notice that her hair has changed (if, say, you cut your hair, wouldn't it be long again?) but also, to not acknowledge the precice moment -(to borrow from Schaefer) the "just"ness- it was cut? What Herculean mental feats must men accomplish to keep Her Lady Schaefer's favor!?

Trust me, it gets worse. Feel free to read the rest here. I'd suggest drinking bleach instead.

Get This Through Your Thick Skulls, People: Juice And Drugs Don't Mix.

If part of your morning routine consists of taking various drugs and washing them down with fruit juice, well, you'd better sit down.

According to a recently published study, fruit juices (grapefruit, orange, apple, et. al.) inhibit a drug's absorbency.

For a complete list of drugs whose parade fruit juice rains on, click this . If that doesn't work, I can save you the bother: if you're a geezer planning on a morning quickie before work, wash that boner pill down with some H20. If zoning out at work is today's M.O., might I recommend some diet Coke with your 100mg Valium?

There's no mention of grapefruit juice having any detrimental effect on intravenous drugs, powders, or roofies; so Bambyshambles, Robert Downy Jr., and your date tonight can all rest (un)easy.

Not surprisingly, nowhere in the article is there mention of citrus juice's ability to, not unlike above mentioned boner-pill, strengthen an elongate one's trip to Valhalla. I guess that's common knowledge at this point.

Here's the link to the NY Times article: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/

Do Farts on Mars = Life On Mars?

From this rather weak attempt to blow your mind:

"Something on Mars is ingesting nutrients, metabolising them and then belching out radioactive methane"

Goddamnit. Not even one sentence into my first (and at this rate, last) blog post and already I'm A) wrong, or B) lying. Great start! OK, so according to super-smarty-pants guy, Gilbert Levin, (aka: dude who thinks Mars' surface is a litter box for microscopic martians) some type of organism is able to find something on Mars worth "ingesting"; albeit a little too quickly.

Now I ain't no scientist or nothin', but with my layman's knowledge of basic chemistry, I can assure you Ol' Gilby has it wrong. You see, a belch contains no methane. None whatsoever. A belch is comprised of nitrogen and oxygen.

While I must acknowledge the catastrophic potential for burps on Mars, I contend that the findings here point elsewhere. They point to Uranus.

Yay, puns.

Radioactive methane? Sounds like in addition to searching for evidence of water, the Viking Lander needs to scour the area for evidence of this guy from my high school physics class, Ron.

(Amazing story: Physics was the first class after lunch, you see, and everyday Ron would come in with his stomach full of chili cheese nachos, Otis Spukmeyer cookies, and who knows what else, and proceed for the next 45 minutes to empty his body of what was (bearing this new information in mind) no doubt radioactive methane. Over the course of those two semesters, Ron altered my DNA. All I can do now is weep and say, "sorry about your growths, son").

"Mr Levin was using belch figuratively, not literally, as you suggest here."

Oh, is that right?

Fine. Let's assume that he is. Let's assume Mr. Levin only meant to illustrate what he believes is happening on Mars with figurative language us dumb-dumbs down here on Earth can understand. That still begs the question: why say belch instead of fart? Chemically, what he seeks is much closer to a fart than a belch. If it were to appear in the analogy portion of the SAT, wouldn't "nitrogen is to belch as methane is to fart" be the correct answer? Is he replacing fart with belch to avoid the ongoing "fartsification" (see: Uranus pun above) of the sciences? Doesn't he know that any attempt to do so is utterly futile? Doesn't he realize that no matter what he or anyone else does (like, changing the pronunciation of Uranus from something that sounds like "your anus" to something that sounds like "urine us" or "you're in us") only embolden kids to be the evil little turds they already are? Couldn't the mental energy exerted to this end (pun?) be better spent trying to reconcile the discrepancy between the universe's expected and measured size?

I mean, seriously...