To Blog or Not to Blog

Revenge Is Mine

Mexican Standoff

Nimos has corrupted Werdna.

Werdna was on fire yesterday. It’s as if he didn’t just drink the kool-aid. Werdna put his whole face in the punch bowl and guzzled all 1.5 litres of it without taking a breath.

Once Werdna heard about Nimos’s trick about adopting a persona, Werdna was all over it. Werdna worked through his break. He stopped trying to chat up the girl who looks like Diablo Cody (an excellent strategy, actually, because she is all “let’s have a drink” since he’s turned disinterested).

He even went to Todd and asked for the cold call list because he was “really feeling it.”

But worst of all, Werdna started talking about maybe not going to Cuba. He’s thinking about all of the money he could use to pay off his student loan. Oh, and he wants to quit the band so he can take on a couple of more shifts each week.

Like I said, Nimos must be stopped.

I listened to myself today and it was not good.

It was like the time I was standing at the bottom of the tobogganning hill when I was 10.  I wasn’t paying attention and then Lisa Lahey came winging down the slope on one of those flying saucer dish thingies and took me out.  Feet shot out from underneath me and I came down hard.  I could hear myself talking but it was like I was watching myself from somewhere far away.

I console myself with the fact that it is Nimos who is the salesman extraordinaire.  It’s not really me.  Nimos is all the things I am not.  Or maybe he’s just the part of me I don’t want to face.  Who knows?

But Nimos is unironic.  Nimos is sincere.  When he’s selling, there is no doubt that you are buying. Nimos speaks in low, soothing tones.  Nimos laughs at all of your unfunny jokes.  No, Nimos says, your ass does not look fat in those pants.

No one likes to say no to Nimos.

I effing hate Nimos.

Take that Ali!

I have peered into the depths of hell today and made a horrifying discovery:  I am a good salesman.  That’s right.  Even Todd was impressed with me.  He told me I’m a natural.

I can’t decide whether the deed shall be done at the end of a rope or a gun.  I suppose it should be in a car with the engine running, for the sheer poetry of it.

But that would burn fossil fuels unnecessarily and everyone knows that makes my lady Ali insane (which is not to sane that she’s not insane already).

My soul is leaking out of my ears.

There are some hot girls who work in call centres.  Seriously.  Brainy, librarian types with the short bangs and cool black glasses.  Verbal girls.  There are also trolls.

But I’m more interested in the hot girls.  They’re feeling ripped off because Daddy isn’t paying their way through film studies at York.  So they’ve taken this stupid job to help pay the bills.

Yesterday’s post mentioned the mutants.  They’re mostly guys who can’t get a job anywhere else.  This makes me look great.  I bathe.  I can talk to a girl without staring at the floor.  My socks match.

Suddenly, I am the biggest catch in the room.  This is a bit of a problem because I now have a girlfriend….

Poor A. isn’t picking up the slack.