Americans,
claude le monde no networks, no nukes, not notcakes
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1:38 pm | 15 October 2004 | eastbound and down So I hate unsurprisingly hate "busy work," not only because it is a total waste of my magnificent brain to do shit like burn, put stickers upon, and then paper-sleeve 40 cd-roms (i mean for real people), and also because of that school connotation where it's just "giving you something to keep busy with," like the hallmark of a good salaried employee is not "i kicked ass in 37 hours this week and i'm leaving at 2pm," but instead "i looked frantic for 40 hours and most of the time i only played Pong." I hate it. And then I actually went and looked up the definition for kicks and it had this gem: I have also eaten the MOST bullshit today, like (this is so gross and I'm sorry but I must repeat MUST keep it real) a triad of tacos--a taco hattrick, if you will. At 8:30am. What can I say? I was starving and hungover, and i wanted savory foods wrapped in carbinaceous white-people* tortillas. (Another thing that is fun is going into Taco Bell or whatever and saying "Yo quiero un pesadilla" to the counter clerk. Just go on up and, in your best honky Spanish, politely request a nightmare. They love it.) Then I just ate this gross blueberry cobbler or something that our accountant brought from Starbucks, only to notice five minutes later that oh, hey, got an oat stuck to my face. No, no worries. Just one. Oat. Singular. Bitches I'm out. I'm going to New York tomorrow and I won't be back on the Left Coast until Thursday, so posting'll be sporadic until then, but Jeremy has internet at home (cough cough no excuse for post paucity chez UD cough) so I'll prolly hoch* something up if I can. WESTSIIIIIIDE! clm. . . .
*This phrase is used to denote any super-homogenized "ethnic" food, like Tostitos, La Choy sweet & sour sauce, or Chef Boyardee "pasta." My parents, Michiganders that they are, are particularly susceptible (through no fault of their own); I'm used to eating those pretty thick greasy gritty Mexican chips, for example, and then I go home and it's all "Look, honey! These ones is white as snow and shaped just for scoopin'! Your aunt made that cream-cheese-and-supermarket-(glorified ketchup)-salsa dip you like!" So killer. Going home is a gastrointestinal disaster with emphasis on the "gas" and "as[s]" from those two words, respectively, 'cause everything is processed to shit and it's like an Applebee's wasteland. I'm from a town of 200,000 with, like, no Thai restaurants. unless otherwise noted, all work contained herein is � claudia sherman, 2002-04. |