Letter to Miss USA Tara Conner

Dear Tara Conner,

Your recent behavior has included coke snorting (allegedly), Miss Teen USA kissing (allegedly), rock star sexing (allegedly) and underage drinking (admittedly)…which would have been great if you’d won a contest to be Tara Reid for a year. But, you’re Miss USA.

Young women should be looking up to you as the role model who personifies everything that they should aspire to be. Instead, young men are excited that you’re encouraging young women to be promiscuous bi-sexual drunks.

Miss USA owner Donald Trump met with you earlier this week with the intent of firing you for your inappropriate behavior, but instead said, “After speaking to her I saw not only a beautiful woman, but a beautiful heart”. My former company’s version of Donald Trump met with me with the intent of firing me for my inappropriate behavior, and did just that after finding no internal or external beauty.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve watched more than one episode of “The Apprentice” and as a result, I know that when Don-Don sours on someone, it’s over…they’re fired. So, I have to assume that to get back in his good graces, you sold your soul to the Donald. This was confirmed when you wouldn’t confess to being an alcoholic, but let Donald kindly admit to your alcohol addiction on your behalf.

You beautiful people have it made. Engaging in sex, drugs and rock-n-roll on the job earned you compliments from your boss and an all expense paid trip to the rehab resort of your choice. If community service is part of the Don’s plan for your life, I’d like you to consider becoming my mentor. I could certainly use some beauty tips and if I ever find an employer dumb enough to hire me back into the corporate world, I’ll need to learn how to get away with lewd behavior to ensure that I don’t repeat the cardinal sin I committed at my last job…trying to be funny.

Thanks,
Matt

Letter to Bob Barker

Dear Bob Barker,

You are an amazing human being. You’re 83 years old and will finally call it quits this spring after a 35 year run on “The Price is Right”. I think people get caught up in how many dinette sets you’ve given away and forget how much you’ve done for national security. While our government has crafted an ingenious plan to build a border fence to control our illegal immigrant population, nothing is being done to fill the void that will be left when you stop reminding Americans to help control the pet population. It’s as though our government plans to just cross its fingers and hope that Howie Mandel starts telling people to spay and neuter their pets. I hope and pray that you are able to find a worthy successor before domesticated animals take over our country.

Just because you need someone to take over your day-to-day campaign against animal ovaries, that doesn’t mean you’ll cease to make a difference. In fact, you recently pledged $300,000 so that an elephant could move from the harsh conditions of the LA Zoo and into an animal sanctuary. The zoo received a lot of negative publicity this summer when animal activists were up in arms over the tragic death of a 45-year-old elephant. I remember reading the obituary and learning that the average life expectancy of an elephant is 42 years. That’s right…conditions at the zoo are so bad that they actually added three years to the life of a fat, dumb animal.

I’m writing today to see if you’d be willing to pledge $300,000 to put another fat dumb, animal into retirement. Sponsoring me would do a lot to silence your critics who unfairly ask, “What do you have against humans?” Sure, $300k would have gone a long way to help families in need this holiday season, but at least one geriatric elephant gets to spend his golden years in an overpriced retirement villa. With your help, I’d like to join him.

Thanks,
Matt

I was the victim?

My former employer never gave me an official reason for my dismissal, but I maintain that the video was the cause since it was implied that the video launched the formal investigation that led to my termination. As painful as it probably was for HR to sit through the video, my email exchanges with other 2HW employees were much worse. Before I actually got fired, I forwarded a bunch of emails home. Tonight, I came across an incriminating exchange. For the sake of anonymity, I won’t say if it was with Craig or Andrew Schmack, but I will say that it probably cannot be considered “business related”.

The exchange began with me forwarding an email to an unnamed 2HW rep (U2R) saying, “for the love of God look at her signature”. The quote at the end of this person’s signature said, “If you want to be a smart cookie, you can’t have a crumby attitude. –Unknown” I hate auto-signature quotes to begin with, but whenever I got one so ridiculous I about lost it. I thought it was a nice touch that my little friend took the time to let me know that the compelling quote’s author is “Unknown”. I’m kind of surprised that Ben Franklin didn’t claim that beauty.
U2R sent back the following reply, “If you don’t want a bleeding anus, then stay away from Brokeback Mountain. Oooh. That one’s going to get me fired”. To which I replied, “I told (Blank) about what you said and she wrote back with the following (Mary is the gay man that used to work in our department) ‘Mary said after a while it doesn’t hurt anymore’”. U2R came back with, “All right. I suggest we start a new email chain”.

Yeah, I got fired because of the video.

Letter to Pamela Anderson

Dear Pamela Anderson,

While part of me was sad to hear that you are no longer Mrs. Kid Rock, another part of me was happy, because I really need a sugar mommy who is willing to let me suckle from her metaphorical (and surgically enhanced) charity teets. But, before you start sending alimony checks, let me explain why I think our marriage could work.

We have a lot in common. We’re both top heavy. Your art film, “Barb Wire”, earned you a worst actress nomination from the Razzies. My art film, “You’re an Eight”, earned me a worst accountant nomination from my former employer. You believe that People should Ethically Treat Animals. I hardly ever kick the neighbor’s cat when she tries to pee in my kid’s sandbox.
I could literally go on forever. But, long lasting marriages aren’t just about commonalities; they’re also about working through differences. Kid Rock had the nerve to wait until after you were married to tell you that he liked to shoot deer and didn’t like Borat. I don’t blame you for filing for divorce. That’s about as irreconcilable as it gets.

The important thing is for me to learn from Kid’s mistakes. I’d like to be up front with you about our minor differences. I’m bottom heavy. You’re a vegetarian. I enjoy barbequed meats. You’re a sexy divorcee. I’m a fat, balding married guy. Nothing we can’t work through, but I thought it was important to be truthful upfront.

Despite our differences, I am committed to our relationship as long as you continue to send me support checks. And who knows, if things go well, I may be able to fulfill my boyhood dream of contracting Hepatitis C.

Thanks,
Matt

Book Signing Cancelled

Craig and I were forced to cancel our book signing due to our inability to find a Sharpie. We’ll have to reschedule. To those inconvenienced, I offer this as consolation: I’ve decided to start feathering my hair.

2HW Reunion?

I will be visiting Craig in California this week where we’ll try to overcome our creative differences and get the band back together. Assuming all goes well, Two Hit Wonder will start its reunion tour by making a rare public appearance in LA this weekend. We would like to announce our first ever Book Signing at the Barnes and Noble in Burbank this Saturday December 2nd from 1-3. Since neither of us has written a book, feel free to bring one of your favorites or the Two Hit Wonder thong.

Tom Green

I’m back in the game after taking some time off to be thankful for Jack Daniels and pie.

Filming the Matt Hit Wonder Show from my mother-in-law’s living room seemed like such a novel concept, but it turns out Tom Green hosts a live nightly Internet talk show from his living room. His web of show business contacts and LA location seem to make for a better show than my little broadcast featuring my limited network in the greater Prairie Village, Kansas region. I decided to write Tom this letter requesting that Two Hit Wonder appear as his guests next week.

Hey Tom Green,

I too am an Internet personality, but whereas you are a world-renowned celebrity, I am a fat unemployed guy. My “partner” Craig and I make up America’s fourth funniest lowbrow buddy comedy duo, Two Hit Wonder.

We were thinking that instead of continuing to book celebrities on your show, you should give a shot to two balding, badly mustached, dumb guys. Sitting next to us is guaranteed to make you appear better looking. In addition, we’re good at drinking and answering phone calls, which appear to be the most important character traits in your guests.

My claim to fame is that I recently got fired from my job pretending to be an Accountant when I filmed a video in my office men’s room (and women’s room) complaining about how close together the urinals were…You’re an Eight. Craig is best known for becoming an ordained minister online and screwing up his cousin John’s wedding.

Craig lives in Altadena and I’ll be in town visiting him this week. So, if Andrew Dice Clay falls ill or Andy Dick’s pre-show urine test reveals dangerous levels of estrogen, we’d be happy to fill in as your guests. Our available dates are November 28 through December 4th.

Thanks,
Matt from Two Hit Wonder
History of Two Hit Wonder

Update: Tom actually posted this email on his website with this response, “sounds awesome! we will be in touch!”.

Mission Accomplished

While driving today through a residential neighborhood near my house I saw a handwritten sign that said, “Oil $80 a barrel: Mission Accomplished”. I laughed at the thought of this Bush basher taking the time to put sharpie to posterboard for the benefit of a very small audience. Then it hit me…he’s getting a lot more traffic than I am…and he’s funnier.

The Return of the 2HW Advice Column

Here’s an email I received from a man named Paul:

I am a big fan of 2HW. I read it daily. I noticed that you had an advice column and I was looking for some help with a personal problem. I work in corporate America and sit behind a computer all day. As a dedicated 2HW fan I have faithfully been dedicating about 85% of my time at work to surfing the internet and doodling on small pieces of paper. However, I’ve run out of things to look at on the Internet and I’m out of paper. What should I do? Should I work?

Big Fan,

I am impressed with your dedication to 2HW. You will certainly be in the running for fan of the year at the first annual 2HW awards show. I had nearly forgotten about my gift for telling others how to run (pronounced “ruin”) their life. And what better time for me to revive the column than when I literally have nothing better to do? Plus, most widely respected advisors are unemployed fat guys.

I can definitely sympathize with your difficult dilemma. You present a complex story problem, which is further complicated by your inclusion of a statistic. I’m going to assume that you spend 15% of your day working. If that’s correct, you work a little over an hour a day, which is equivalent to a short lunch break. That puts you right on the bubble of my maximum daily allowance of work. (If I had paid attention at my last job, I would have been able to put together a cool graph detailing acceptable work to non-work ratios.)

My advice: Quit your job. It’s not worth it. There are plenty of other jobs out there where you wouldn’t be expected to work so much. Have you thought of working for the government? Learn from the mistake I made…

One day, while sitting in my cube finding songs to download illegally off the music drive at work, I stumbled upon a little slice of heaven known as Tenacious D’s “Cosmic Shame”. It was as though Jack Black was speaking into my very soul when he said, “The message of the D is clear…Set the artist free. I’m saying quit your effing day job. And a lot of you are saying “Eff you Jack. I can’t quit my day job. I got kids to feed.” Eff the kids. I’m not saying eff them, but eff them. What do you think you’re doing them a favor? Effing working your day job putting them through school. How bout the effing guilt trip you subliminally give them because you didn’t follow your effing dreams? And now they’re effed up in different ways. Quit your day job. Focus on your craft.”

For the well being of my kids, I should have listened. Instead, somebody quit my job for me. Don’t let that happen to you. Listen to me as the voice of reason. Quit your day job. Focus on your craft. You love to doodle. You love the internet. Get yourself a doodle blog and start doodling the Internet.

If you don’t listen and keep your “real” job that’s fine…it’s your funeral. I do have a couple helpful tips for those who choose to work. First, I recommend that you acquire irritable bowel syndrome and intolerance for lactose. There is no feeling more rewarding than the one you get when you realize that you are getting paid to defecate. Second, memorize this quote and use it liberally, “I came in late and took a long lunch, so I’m going to go ahead and take off early.” Finally, you will get fired eventually and when you do, make sure it’s for something funny.

Matt

Urinals on Ebay

Four used urinals shaped as women’s mouths sold on Ebay for over $7,000. That’s great. Politicians in Austria complained about sexist urinals and they were taken down and sold as novelties. But, when a fake accountant in Kansas complained about sexist urinals he was fired.

Letter to Denise Richards

Dear Denise Richards,

You are a whole lot of woman. I’m a whole lot of man. You’ve acted in dozens of movies and TV shows and have millions of dollars to show for it. I starred in one video and not only did the project lose money, it also cost me my job. Our acting talent is pretty similar, so what makes our results so different? I’ve studied your work closely and I think I’ve figured it out. It’s bravery.

Last week while you were filming “Blonde and Blonder” (co-starring the equally talented Pamela Anderson), two members of the press stormed the set without permission. Some megastars would have let security handle such an issue, but you sprung into action like your “The World is Not Enough” co-star, Remington Steele. You grabbed not one, but two paparazzi laptops and flung them off the hotel balcony. Were it not for your quick thinking, not one, but two elderly women wouldn’t have been hit by those laptops while sitting in the hotel lobby.

Who cares about the health of two ladies who are probably about to die anyway? You knew it was more important to neutralize the paparazzi so that you and Pamela could continue your pursuit of your first Academy Awards. You’re smarter than you look. You might find this hard to believe, but I assure you I’m dumber than I look. How dumb am I? Craig gave me a floral Speedo as a parting gift when he quit the band. I planned to do a photo shoot with me wearing the Speedo to promote the website. But, you’ve helped me realize I’d be making a mistake if I did the shots alone. I’ve decided to purchase a matching Speedo for you and would love it if you would join me on location for the shoot. There’s bound to be paparazzi swarming around my Speedo and me and I’d like you to serve as my security detail.

Thanks,
Matt

Letter to Axl Rose

Dear Axl Rose,

Your new and confused version of Guns n Roses recently cancelled a show in Maine when the local authorities informed you that you would not be allowed to drink on stage. What a freaking crock. I’m so tired of The Man telling victims like you and me what to do.

Your band spokesperson said that the fire marshals made it “impossible for the band to perform their show to the usual high standards that their fans deserve.” Everyone with a brain knows that drinking is crucial to high work standards. Back when I used to work, I never understood how I was supposed to solve complex accounting riddles without Jack Daniels’ help.

You continued to promote drinking in the workplace with this statement on your website, “I agree with, and ultimately take responsibility for, the end decision not to jeopardize the safety of the fans, the crews, the bands and myself as a result of the methods of these particularly draconian authorities” (the fire marshals). Canceling the show was such a brave step. You care enough for your fans to not put them at risk by making them listen to you do a show sober.
You’ve helped me realize that I’ve been screwing my fans by writing many of my blog entries without the assistance of alcohol. That stops today. I’m going to buy a Breathalyzer machine to ensure that I’m well over the legal limit before I write any future posts.

Thanks,
Matt

P.S. I think my website would sell a lot more copies if GNR did the soundtrack. Let’s set up some studio time for you to lay down some random, unintelligible tracks. I can’t pay in actual money, but if you bring your “talent”, I’ll make sure you and your boys don’t go thirsty.

No Sale

My Craigslist ad ended without the sale of my business casual wardrobe, but I did get this response from a stranger…

Would you separate? I’m interested in the Van Halen shirt for my husband’s Christmas present.Also, is it pre or post David Lee Roth???????
Thanks

Granted, the ad wasn’t my best work, but come on. If I had worked for a company that let me wear a “Van Halen Kicks Ass” jersey on Casual Friday, I’d still have a job.

Letter to Britney Spears

Dear Britney Spears,

Partners are so overrated. You recently filed for divorce from K-Fed. Craig recently broke up with me. I understand your pain/really need someone to support my comedy habit. But, before you make me your next deadbeat husband, please allow me to point out how much we have in common.

I grew up in Kentwood, Michigan. You grew up in Kentwood, Louisiana, where you met Jason Alexander, who would later become your first husband. Drunkenly stumbling down the aisle together in Vegas wasn’t exactly a fairy tale Prince Charles and Lady Diana-esque affair, but who could have predicted that your blessed union would only last 55 hours? The press made fun of you, but I understand how you felt. I too had a relationship that lasted two days…in fifth grade. There was this girl in my class named Mary Whynott. All the boys would ask her, “Mary, will you marry me?” and when she said “no”, we’d say “Why not?” It was hilarious, until one day I asked her if she’d marry me and she said “yes”. Our brief engagement ended when she ran out of Valentine’s candy.

But, our similarities don’t stop there. You just had another baby; I look like I’m pregnant. You dress provocatively and have open mouth kissed Madonna. People open their mouths all the time when I show too much skin.

If you’re still not convinced that we’re perfect for each other, let me be clear that I’d be willing to give as well as take. Your parenting skills have been scrutinized. I have two kids of my own. I’d be glad to teach you how to buckle a car seat and safely carry your kids without dropping them on their heads.

I won’t even ask you to commit to a relationship without meeting me first. What do you say? Let’s go to Vegas, tie one on and then tie the knot.

Thanks,
Matt

P.S. I really think this could work. So much so that I’m willing to not sign a prenuptial agreement.

Back to Work

My wife has been out of town since Friday, allowing me the chance to burn my first three vacation days at my new job volunteering to write bad comedy on a seldom-read blog. After a weekend alone with the kids, I discovered that I might have been better at playing the role of fat, balding Accountant than I am at playing fat, balding single mother.

An out of shape ex-Accountant used to sitting at a desk all day proved to be no match for the miniature humans that live at my house. The kids were like tiny Billy Tae Bos, continually pushing me to do more reps. When it was clear I would not be able to keep up with their demands, the looks on their faces indicated that my approval rating was downward bound. So, I tried to win them back with large doses of sugar.

Donuts for breakfast gave way to a lollipop brunch and a buffet style Halloween candy lunch. The only legitimate food group that the kids didn’t throw at me was dairy. As a result our dinners were (in order) cheese pizza, cheese pizza, macaroni and cheese and grilled cheese. Hold on…those also fall into the bread/grain food group. I guess I’m still in the running for father of the year.

One night, my four-year-old daughter melted down at bedtime saying her “bobbin” hurt. I asked her what she thought was wrong with her bottom. She said, “I think it misses mommy”. My fat ass missed mommy too.

Owww My Liver!!!

Craig does bad impressions. One of his worst is Beavis. Craig and I once watched an episode where Beavis gets in a car wreck and cries, “Oww! Oww! My liver!” When Craig tried to mimic that phrase, he made Beavis sound French.

The impression was so horribly memorable that he and I continue to use “oww my liver” after suffering just about any injury…a stubbed toe, a kick to the growing, or most often as a compliment to the other’s comedy, as in “I’m laughing so hard I just sprained my liver”.
I rarely use the phrase around the house, so it surprised me today when my 4-year old daughter bumped her hip into the chair I was sitting in and said, “Oww my liver”. I was so proud. Her impression sounded much more like Beavis than Craig’s. I think I’ve found my new buddy comedy partner.

Taking Care of Business Casual

I have way too many business casual shirts in my closet that I refuse to wear on principle. They’re nice shirts, but now that the Man stopped giving me the business, I need to stick with simply casual. However, the long sleeved casual shirts currently in my wardrobe are few in number and are more like half shirts. It’s not a good look for the fat, unemployed guy to stretch and reveal his bare midriff.

I guess I could have borrowed one of my wife’s navel rings or at least cleaned out my belly button lint more frequently. Instead, I chose to spend money I don’t have on shirts with more fabric. I decided that I needed something that said, “It looks like tubby is going for casual, but you can tell he’s on a tight budget.” So, I went to the Old Navy hoping that their willingness to have their clothes made in sweatshops would save me money.

I found 3 XXL shirts for a total of $30 and couldn’t have been happier. I can rotate those 3 shirts all winter by implementing Craig’s college underwear system…washing them in the shower rather than wasting additional water using the washing machine.

If my income doesn’t pick up soon, I’ll have to wear one of these mock sweatshirts to the first annual 2HW awards show. When Joan Rivers asks me who I’m wearing, I’ll say, “Phoc Dhat. She may only be 8 years old, but it sounds like she’ll be forced to make second rate sweaters just like this for years to come”.

The problem is, Phoc’s hands aren’t big enough to make size XXXL shirts. I’m literally one size away from shopping at the Big and Tall Men’s store and I can’t afford that. I guess in that sense, I’m lucky to have lost my job. I’m in no danger of eating myself out of shopping at Old Navy, because food costs money. Hey, that gives me an idea. I think I’ll write a book called the “Atkinson Diet”…step 1 get fired…

She's No Lady

I received a great new quote for the testimonials section from the wife of one of my buddies. After he told her the story of my urinal bump and the termination of my employment, she said, “I could not be married to Matt”.

Speak no Huevo, Hear no Huevo

Dear National Association of the Deaf,

Recently I lamented the fact that there is not a male version of the National Organization for Women. I joked about a National Association for Dudes, never imagining that a group would actually use the initials NAD. Just because you can’t hear, doesn’t mean you’re dumb. Why wouldn’t you rearrange your initials so that they didn’t spell a slang term for testicle?

Your ignorance reminded me of an article I read years ago in Sports Illustrated. It was about Mexican born Eurubiel Durazo, who was passed over by many scouts, but had a solid rookie season. The author said that scouts who ignored Durazo have “huevos on their faces”. He was trying to imply that scouts were embarrassed, but he should have checked with someone who actually knew Spanish rather than relying on his Spanish/English dictionary’s definition of “huevos”. It literally means “eggs”, but is slang for “testicles”.

Wow, that really wasn’t where I was going when I first decided to write to you. I should really put this entry over on Craig’s blog because he’s the wonder most likely to get distracted by testicles.

I have a much more serious reason for this letter. I recently lost my job and really need your help increasing the traffic on my website. I need to sexify my blog, making it easier on the eyes. I’m picturing each blog entry becoming a video with a hot deaf girl signing the words as they scroll down the screen closed captioning style. If she can read the blog in Spanish while signing that would be ideal. As far as you know, I have no experience renting hot Spanish speaking deaf girls by the hour. Do you have a catalogue or some type of brochure that details your rates?

Thanks,
Matt

P.S. If this works out, please make sure to send a female. Craig has been lurking around 2HW again and I’m a little worried that if a hot deaf Mexican dude joined the staff, someone would end up with huevos on their face.

I'm a Roll (sic) Model

Today, my son needed some alone time and closed the door to his room. By the time I went in to check on him he had stripped down to just his diaper. He was running from one side of the room to the other, squatting down in front of the fan until it got too cold. He’d then run to the other side of the room shivering while saying, “BRRR!!!!”

My first thought was that he’s taking my job loss a lot more seriously than me. It was as though he was getting himself ready for a long, cold winter without clothes or shelter.

After I watched him run back and forth several times, he came over to the chair I was sitting in and tried to lift up my shirt. I didn’t think much of it, because he often pulls up my shirt and stares in wonder at the many rolls that make up my belly. But, then it hit me… he was wanting me to join him for Clothing Optional Friday. Not even two years old and he’s already reading my blog! Now if I could just teach him how to click the little Google ads at the bottom of the page, he might not end up homeless and hungry.

Business Casual Wardrobe for sale on Craigslist

I just posted the following ad on Craiglist...

Subject: I just got fired…business casual wardrobe for sale

Remember that time a stranger bumped into me at the urinal in my office men’s room, forcing me to research urinal code and find that the urinals were in fact illegally too close together? Remember when I thought it would be funny to shoot a video reenacting that encounter and post it on youtube? Remember when HR didn’t think it was funny and fired me?

Yeah, that was great. So great in fact, that I now have absolutely no chance of ever working in corporate America again. In order to keep my kids from starving, I must now sell my entire business casual wardrobe.

Please email me with your bid on this lot: four pairs of 40x30 khaki Dockers, 8 double XL mock turtlenecks, 6 pairs of gently used argyle socks and the “Van Halen Kicks Ass” jersey I used to wear on casual Friday.

Matt
www.twohitwonder.com/matt

Link to the video that got me fired…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWWphdDbJqc

Day 3

Oh man, this is really getting serious. What am I supposed to do now? I woke up this morning and it really hit me hard…I have no idea what my version of Casual Friday is going to look like. If I’m wearing jeans every other weekday, what am I supposed to do to mix things up on Fridays?

I always wanted to go into the office without a shirt on Casual Friday. But, at home, that’s pretty much standard and therefore not funny. Clothing optional Friday might work, but I’ll probably wait till the wife and kids leave the house. It’s hard enough explaining to the kids why daddy is home all the time, but explaining why daddy is home and not wearing pants would be harder still.

Everyone’s a Bitch Friday was perfect for the Office, but I’m not sure I want my son calling me a Bitch when I turn off his favorite video, “Barbie: 12 Princesses”. At first I was a little concerned that he loved such a girly video, but after watching it 20 times since I got fired, I get it. Barbie is hot. 22 months old and the boy is already into women. We could be in trouble.
Gotta run. The wife and kids just left. I’m going to change into nothing but my moustache, kick back in my barcolounger and watch “The Price is Right”.

Day 2

This is wild. I really don’t have a job. I think I could get used to retirement…although, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are already getting old. I wonder how long we could make it if I start selling the kid’s toys on Ebay.

Speaking of which, my wife has yet to set up a firewall at home. I’m like an ex-Accountant in a candy store. I have none of the restrictions that used to drive me crazy at work. It’s great. I can get on Ebay, Fantasy Football sites, Poker sites, My Space…wait maybe a fat, unemployed thirty-something with a weird moustache shouldn’t admit to spending daytime hours on My Space.

While my wife has yet to try to restrict my idle web time, she is putting together an HR handbook for our home. She’s going to make damn sure that I am aware of all policies so that my ignorance does not get me into any more trouble.

Last week HR was telling me I wasn’t funny. This week it was my daughter. I told her that from now on, whenever anyone “tooted” we would blame it on the squirrels. She didn’t even crack a smile, but instead informed me that we should say, “Excuse me” after we toot, so that “everyone would know who did it”. I said, “Your idea is probably better, now pull my finger”. Maybe that’s why dad went to work while mom stayed home and taught the kids manners.

The Man stuck it to me today

I still maintain that work is for PHAGs, but I’m going to have to take a short break from posting in the Work’s for PHAGs section. I was fired today for conduct unbecoming of an accountant. I wasn’t given a specific reason for my dismissal, but I think this blog, specifically the Work’s for PHAGS section and video contributed to my demise.

That is all.

Update 10:00am…I’m wearing blue jeans and a ball cap…ON A WEDNESDAY!

To do:

Convince the kids that they can get by on 1 meal a day.

More 2HW Weddings

Yesterday, I summarized my weekend of wedding crashing. It wasn’t nearly as sexy as Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn made it out to be. While I may not have had the opportunity to make out with a single Treasury Secretary’s daughter, it did make me think of another wedding crash involving Craig and me.

In college, I was one of a multitude of groomsman in my roommate Bryan’s wedding. I brought Craig with me to Arkansas even though he hadn’t been invited. He didn’t know Bryan very well and had never even met the bride. But, when one of the groomsman backed out at the last minute, Craig was asked to fill in.

In those days Craig was known as “The Fat Kid”, so he jumped at the chance to attend the rehearsal dinner featuring all-you-can-eat catfish. This was well before Craig decided to become a man of the cloth, so he predictably succumbed to gluttony.

The next day Craig was wishing it had been an “all-you-care-to-eat” catfish buffet instead of “all-you-can-eat”. After taking pictures in the hot sun, Craig was in pretty bad shape and a few short minutes before game time he was nowhere to be found. Everyone was scrambling to locate Craig as the groomsman began escorting the bridesmaids down the aisle.

But, just seconds before Craig’s date was about to walk down the aisle solo, we heard a mighty flush and turned to see Craig walk out of the men’s room with a relieved look on his face. His bridesmaid was not quite as chipper when Craig asked her to smell his thumb on the way down the aisle.

He continued to offend women in pretty dresses, later calling the bride Mary Beth instead of Sara Beth. Months later we learned that Sara Beth was not happy with the substitute groomsman’s antics on the wedding video. Apparently, Craig did not notice the cameraman behind him, who couldn’t help but get a shot of Craig grabbing another groomsman’s caboose.
The night ended appropriately, with Craig catching the garter belt. Eleven short years later Craig found his blushing bride. Thank God Craig didn’t meet her then, because she still had baby teeth and was on the junior high drill team.

After the wedding we went back to the house where we were staying. Before I get into that, I need to do a quick background story to set the scene. During our freshman year in college, Craig developed an ingenious underwear system. He only owned three pair and they happened to be very colorful bikini briefs. He would wear one pair into the shower, wash it and hang it up to dry. The next day he would wear the other pair and wash and dry it in the same manner. Pair number 3 was for emergencies only.

I’m not sure why he thought lounging on a stranger’s bed qualified as an emergency, but one of the tenants of the house unexpectedly came home a day early to find Craig laying in his bed wearing nothing but purple briefs. The Fat Kid in bikini underpants was not quite as attractive as the women Owen and Luke brought home in Wedding Crashers.

Weddings by 2HW

In the glory days of Two Hit Wonder, I tried to convince Craig that we needed to add weddings to the suite of services we offered. The wedding ceremonies I’ve attended often incorporate the same boring format that ends up lulling me into daydreams about whether or not there will be an open bar at the reception. I pictured 2HW breaking that mold.

Instead of reading the traditional bible verses, Craig and I would perform a Scripture rap. Instead of an overdramatic solo by someone with musical talent, I would belt out “Every Rose Has Its Thorns” while Craig strummed the only two guitar cords he knows. We’d spice up the tired old seating of the tired old grandparents with a little geriatric musical chairs. The charge/sermon would be in traditional 2HW “Letter to Hollywood” format. And we’d finish up by letting the happy couple light our moustaches instead of the unity candle.

But, Craig pretended not to get my vision and I quickly gave up on the dream. Fast forward a few months…Craig unexpectedly quit 2HW. He told me he thought we should start dating other wonders. But, soon I would learn the truth. He wanted to do weddings without me.

Last night he officiated his first wedding. No joke. While some couples choose a minister or justice of the peace to perform their ceremony, Craig’s cousin John and his bride decided that Craig’s experience as a financial analyst made him the ideal candidate to be a fake minister for a day. Instead of going to seminary, Craig spent $15 and was ordained by the First Church of the World Wide Web.

Although I don’t know John well enough to have been invited to the wedding, I knew I had to sneak in to witness Craig’s performance. He actually held up pretty well under the pressure. John and Janet did the smart thing and didn’t let Craig ad lib anything. He was instructed to read word-for-word what was written in his handbook. But, it’s what wasn’t written that caused the most trouble. They forgot Craig was a rookie, and really should have started his program with a simple, “You may be seated”. Instead, the audience was forced to stand throughout the entire ceremony.

I made it a goal to float out to Inebriation Island as quickly as possible and was sufficiently toasty by the time the best man started his toast. His first order of business was to thank Craig for performing the ceremony. Craig was sitting right next to me, so with all eyes on him, I drunkenly lifted my glass to toast, only to watch in horror as my fat, greasy fingers dumped my bourbon and coke all over our table. How nice of the uninvited guest to make a public spectacle of himself.

It could have been worse. I could have stood up and tried to do a toast of my own. I was thinking through it in my mind, but thankfully wasn’t able to quickly formulate a joke about the Priest trying to get in my pants. (Craig had come over to my house before the wedding because his suit pants were too tight. I offered up a pair of my pants, which he chose to wear even though they really didn’t match his suit coat.)

At one point in the evening, I snuck a dinner roll into my suit coat pocket. I spent the entire night waiting for the right moment to pull it out. Finally, everyone had left except Craig, his wife, the mother of the groom, her husband and me. The husband was eating a cookie. I piped up with something like, “You two really should be eating together” and handed MOG the roll from my pocket. To which she replied, “You are so freaking weird”. Again…nice job of blending in by the guy who crashed the wedding.

I further wore out my welcome with my excessive participation in the fish bowl that was set up for well wishers to offer congratulations to the happy couple. I think I wrote about 6 or 7, none of them appropriate. I know one was a Haiku, another quoted Sir Mixalot’s “Baby’s got Back”, and one talked about an aunt who was making me sick by dancing barefoot.
Let me preface the closing by saying that I’m the only living English major who routinely has to have literary symbolism explained to me, so there’s a very good chance I don’t understand the depth of meaning for the special music John and Janet chose…“Bittersweet Symphony” by the Verve. The only line I really know from the song goes like this,

“Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony, this life

Trying to make ends meet

You’re a slave to money then you die”

A fitting end to the happiest day of John, Janet and my lives.

You're an Eight Video

People without mental problems would have let this issue die a long time ago. Not me. Hope you enjoy the video…

You're an Eight Update 5

I’m tired of living in fear. I cringe every time the bathroom door opens while I’m standing at the urinal in my office restroom. But, I have a dream. A dream that one day little white accountants won’t have to hold hands with the other little white accountants while trying to tinkle. I have a dream. A dream that one day my office’s urinals will be 30 inches apart…with privacy partitions.

But, no one seems to care about my dreams. My lawyer had better things to do. The city plumbing code administrator may as well have told me “if you don’t like it, pee in the sink”. So, as a last resort, I turned to my office’s building manager and had this email exchange…

Building Manager,

I have a problem with how close together the urinals are in the men’s rooms in this building. The other day I had an uncomfortable experience, when another employee inadvertently (I assume) brushed up against me while we were standing next to each other at the urinals.

So, I researched urinal code and I have to tell you, it is a fascinating topic. I learned that current code requires 30 inches center to center with a privacy partition. I also learned that since this building was built in 1973 and the code was different back then, it’s not required that the building be brought up to current code, but it sure would be nice to have a reasonable amount of space to feel comfortable. Every time I go into the restroom, I’m worried that someone is going to bump into me again. Is there any way the urinal spacing could be improved?

Thanks,
Matt

His response implied that a restroom remodel would not be happening anytime soon.

This is getting ridiculous. But, where do I turn?

If it weren’t so pale, the NAACP would have my back. But, there’s no National Association for the Advancement of Norwegian People.

If I was born without a member, I wouldn’t have this problem, but at least I’d be eligible to be a member of the National Organization for Women. I searched for a National Association for Dudes, but there’s no such group. (At least it didn’t come up when I googled “NADS”).

Tom Bosley would tell me “don’t get mad, get GLAAD”. But, the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation wouldn’t help me because I like girls. Besides, they’re too busy fighting for George Michael’s right to continue smoking (dudes) in the boys’ room.

If I were a dying kid, I’d have the Make a Wish Foundation. But, nobody seems to care about the wishes of a 34 year-old fat, white guy.

Sane people would probably let the issue go at this point. But, sanity is overrated. I was going to wait to play the insanity card, because I had been holding out hope that my large cash settlement in this case would hinge on proving that getting bumped in the men’s room has made me crazy. I’ve since realized that there would be too many witnesses that could definitively say that my insanity was a pre-existing condition. At this point, I’ll take any help I can get. Dear Association of People with (Mental) Disabilities…

Craigslist Post: Man Seeking Candice Bergen

I just made the following post on Craigslist in the "Missed Connections" section...

Oh, sweet Candice, I hope you remember me. Last night I dreamt that you were a big fan of my blog and wanted to work with me. You offered me $50 an hour, but before we could get into the details of our work relationship, you turned into Susan Sarandon. I immediately thought of an offensive letter/blog entry that I wrote to Susan and her boy toy, Tim Robbins. So, I started running in the general direction of the Internet to take down that post, but awoke before the situation was resolved.

Susan/Candice...Please do the honorable thing and make good on our non-binding verbal agreement that currently resides somewhere in the twisted recesses of my subconscious. I could really use the money to help pay for the therapy I’m undergoing to find out why the women of my dreams are over 60.

Thanks,
Matt
www.twohitwonder.com/matt

CSI: Miami Blog

In my letter to David Caruso I made fun of his show, implying that the audience they’re trying to draw is older and less manly than the crowd that watches Monday Night Football. Tonight, I realized that I was wrong.

Does it get any manlier than a show that centers on a male model with cheek implants using his convertible to kill his rival? Throw in a model agency owner killing her partner by putting cyanide in her lipstick and suddenly ESPN has some serious competition for the attention of the 18-45 year old male.

Especially when you consider the addition of a hot new cast member. Heather Locklear proved to be a big boost to the ratings of “Melrose Place”. However, it’s her “Melrose Place” co-star Rob Estes who’s joining “CSI: Miami”. Rob was good on “Silk Stalkings”, but he was nothing short of incredible tonight.

I guess that’s only natural when you’re working with the best. In the opening scene, David “Horatio” Caruso displayed not only his brilliant acting skills, but also his phenomenal peripheral vision. He asked Frank if he “got anything” even though the angle Horatio was facing and the 15 feet between the two men could not have possibly allowed Horatio to see Frank coming. He also found time to take his sunglasses off and put them back on and deliver an overdramatic line to lead into the catchy “CSI: Miami” theme song.

Horatio continued to make it impossible to suspend disbelief a few minutes into the show, saying, “He was hit by a car and is currently dead”. At the 14:27 mark and the 24:27 mark, Horatio delivered his line with his back to the other actors in the scene. I’m not sure how other cast members can keep a straight face. In Caruso’s world, you ain’t acting if you ain’t distracting.
In the show’s 48th minute, I really got upset at the blatant stereotyping of the man who played the Accountant. He was heavy, balding and geeky looking. Even though I fit that stereotype to a t, it would be nice if just once my people could be played by someone as hunky as Rob Estes.

Letter to Ricky Williams

Dear Ricky Williams,

Remember that time you won the Heisman Trophy? Sorry that wasn’t a fair question. It was eight years and thousands of brain cells ago. But, take my word for it. You were the best college football player in 1998.

After college, you signed with Master P’s “No Limit Sports” agency, even though No Limit had never negotiated an NFL contract, let alone the contract of the #5 overall pick. The deal was so bad that you ended up making about $50 million dollars less than the #4 pick.

Most people would be a mess if one little signature cost them $50 million, but you’re doing great. You’re still playing football. Sure, it’s the Canadian Football League, but at least the drug tests are less frequent than in the NFL. In 2004 you did so well on NFL drug tests that you were encouraged to take a one-year leave of absence. You maximized your time off by enrolling in college. Several weeks later you were an expert in the ancient Indian art of holistic medicine. Along the way, you’ve done what many men only dream of…fathering five kids…with five baby’s mommas. And to top it all off, you’re a vegetarian and a certified yoga instructor.

One day, I hope to have a resume with half as many accomplishments. For now, I’m having trouble finding an agent willing to represent an Accountant who specializes in urinal code comedy writing. But, who better to rep me than Master P? Maybe R. Kelly, but I’ll take my chances with the agency that made you the man you are today. I was hoping that you could set up a meet and greet with No Limit and me, where we could pass the dutchie and plot out a strategy to ruin my life.

Thanks,
Matt

You're an Eight Update 4

After my lawyer washed his hands of me before returning to “real” work, I went back to the city Plumbing Code Administrator and had this exchange.

PCA,

I feel like Stan Cramer (editor’s note: Stan is a Kansas City local TV news legend who fights for consumer rights). I finally brought my tape measure to work and found that the distance between urinals in the men’s room on my floor is at most 25 inches (pictures below) rather than the required 30 inches. As it turns out, I have more space in which to take care of business than the poor saps on the other 9 floors. I measured each restroom in my building and all of the other urinals are a mere 24 inches apart (pictures unavailable due to my cameraman’s unwillingness to participate in my urinal tour). I also found that the distance between the center of the urinal and the wall should be 15 inches, but these johns came up a couple inches short (that’s what she said).

I’d like to exercise my right to have enough space to comfortably urinate without having a stranger rub up against me. What can be done to ensure that our building is brought up to code? Also, is there any type of witness protection program offered by the city? Because I don’t think “the Man” is going to be very happy with me tattling on him.

Thanks,
Anonymous





Matt,

Looks like you work in an old building. I see where a contractor has recently done some work but I can’t tell what…I am in Florida at code change hearings so I don’t have access to plans or files.

PCA

PCA,

I’m pretty sure the contractor work did not affect the restrooms. On the floors that I’ve seen, it looks like the only work done was adding conference rooms and offices.

I did some more research and my understanding is that whatever the urinal code was at the time the building was built would be the standard that the building would be held to until a “change of use” or “change of ownership”, which would require the building be brought up to the current code. Is that correct? If so, I believe the building used to be owned by my parent company, but my company split from them and took over the building in mid-May…which I would think would constitute a change of ownership. Let me know if I have my facts right.

Thanks,
Matt

Matt,

A change in use would require the building to be brought up to code. Ownership has no bearing on the matter. I had some research done for me while I was out of the office and it looks like the building was built in 1973. I don’t think there is anything that we can do about the situation. Typically the statue of limitations on building code items is two years. Sorry.

PCA

End email exchange.

Oh PCA…you have made a horrible mistake. And I’m not talking about your reference to a “statue” of limitations. You’ve brushed me aside. My lawyer brushed me aside. But, I will not idly stand by and let my side continue to be brushed by other men while standing at the urinal. I was violated and I will not rest until I’m vindicated.

Letter to David Caruso

Dear David Caruso,

You are amazing. Your bio says you’re 50, but your face looks as weathered as Bea Arthur’s. Your acting is brutally unrealistic. You over-dramatize every line of dialogue while looking downward or off in the distance. You’re constantly taking your sunglasses off and putting them back on…whether you’re inside or out. You open every scene standing at a weird angle with your hands on your hips.

You left NYPD Blue after one season when you incorrectly assumed that you were the hottest dude on the planet. Your film career tanked and yet here you are back in the spotlight…a bona fide international star. Your 100th episode just aired and CSI: Miami is the number one show in the world. How is that possible?

If CBS really thought you were the Sexiest Man Alive, they would not have put your little spin-off show on opposite Monday Night Football. To me, giving you a Monday night slot, was your network’s way of saying that you are, at best, the heir apparent to Dick Van Dyke’s “Diagnosis Murder” audience. CBS execs realize they won’t draw men away from MNF, and instead were looking for someone who could draw in old ladies. So they sent your pasty skinned red head to the city where old women go to die.

But, “Murder She Wrote with Better Technology” unexpectedly has drawn a worldwide audience…which is exactly what I’m trying to do with this blog. You’ve made me realize that I’ve wasted too much time writing about work and/or going Hollywood. All I need to do is talk about you. Effective immediately, I’m going to abandon all other categories in this blog and create the world’s greatest (and only) CSI: Miami blog.

Thanks,
Matt

Chili Husbandry

When I walked into the break room today, FB and her fun committee partner (henceforth known as fun beatch’s beatch or FBB) were hanging up a sign-up sheet for the upcoming chili cook-off. I came in mid-conversation, but could immediately tell they were both pissed about the lack of interest in the chili cook-off. I wish I had written down FBB’s quote. It was downright mean. Something about sending out nasty emails if “this doesn’t work”. She may as well have said, “If you don’t make chili with a smile on your face when we tell you to, we WILL start busting kneecaps.” I had to turn away to suppress my laughter.

After they left I took a look at the four names on the sheet. Suspiciously, they all were written with the same handwriting. The list included our director (who no doubt felt sorry for the FBs), the Golf of Mexico (who wouldn’t know fun if it hit him in the head with a four-iron), FBB and finally this beauty from FB herself…

Blankety Blank (husbon’s)

I assume she was signing herself up, but wanted everyone to know that her husband would be making the chili. But, you’ve got to be kidding me. “Husbon”? That’s how a second grader would spell “husband” if they were trying to sound it out.

I signed up “Jon Bon Jovi” and within 30 minutes it was whited out. A co-worker pointed out that I really should have written, “Jon Bon Jovi (wyf’s)”. The next day I signed up Fonzi to make some fun chili. A couple days later FB was overheard saying, “Someone signed up Jon Bon Jovi yesterday. Now Fonzi is on the list. I just don’t think that’s very funny”. I guess FB and I have a mutual disrespect for each other…I don’t think she’s very fun.

The Fun Committee Grammar Rodeo and Chili Cook-Off

The fun committee will not stop trying to ruin my life. Two weeks ago, the self-appointed queen of the fun committee (from here on I will refer to her as “Fun Beatch” or “FB”) bombarded me with three meeting makers in a five-minute span. Each required three-hour meeting gives FB and her cronies the right to impose their fun upon me during the October, November and December fun events. Giving 90 days notice of the exact time and place I’m expected to have fun against my will is a little much.

She continued overdoing the advanced notice last week with an email giving us almost four weeks to mentally prepare to decorate our hallways with Halloween themes. At the end of the week, our director will judge our decorating skills and give away fabulous prizes. Hallway decoration week will culminate with a chili cook-off, for which there will be three more prizes. FB concluded the email by saying, “Those who would like to compete must hurry and sign up as there are limited slots available.”

FB probably should have confirmed how many chili entrants there would be before committing to give away three prizes, because less than a week later she freaked out, sending an email that read, “The chili sign up sheet is looking very empty, is there no chili cook’s around? Their has to be some great chili cook’s in (Blank)’s group?” If you’re keeping score at home, that’s grammatical errors 5…chili “cook’s” 0.

You're an Eight Update 3

My saga to receive hush money from my company for my office’s urinal code non-compliance continues. Here is a follow up email exchange with my lawyer.

Lawyer,

I invested some of the company’s time on Friday to measure the urinals in the 10 men’s rooms in our building. I only have results for 9 out of the 10, because I’m really not allowed on the 10th floor. It’s for our executives. I gave it a good try, but the industrial size tape measure bulging out of my pocket must have aroused suspicion, because I was followed into the men’s room. I panicked and pump faked towards the urinals only to turn around, wash my hands and leave.

All that to say, I think you’re right about the code being different when the building was built, because the nine urinals that I measured were 24 inches apart. But, damnit, I feel it is my duty to fight on behalf of all men who dream of urinating without the threat of being touched by another man.

So, today I continued my research. The best I can tell, this building was built in 1973. Oddly enough, I can’t seem to find a website dedicated to historical urinal code. Perhaps that’s the future of Two Hit Wonder dot com. But, maybe finding out what the urinal code was in 1973 will be irrelevant.

This link says, “Older buildings are ‘grand-fathered’ as code is updated; that is an older building must abide by the applicable toilet codes at the time the build permit was issued.” However, it goes on to say, “‘change of use’ or ‘change of occupancy’ will trigger the need for a new building permit and compliance with current code”.

The building was formerly owned by our parent company, but we spun off from them this summer and we now own the building. If that constitutes a “change of occupancy” or “change of use” then compliance to the current code would be required.

Another requirement I found is that there should be 15 inches between the center of a urinal and any side wall or partition. Our buildings urinals are at least a couple inches too close to the walls as well.

I’d like to make this the defining case in the long history of urinal legislation. I’d like to see Atkinson and Urinal go together like Roe and Wade. Let me know if you think we have a case, otherwise please refer me to a another high-powered lawyer that specializes in pee-pee law. Maybe I should try that guy on the back of the phone book who’s a lawyer and a doctor.

Thanks,
Matt

**Evidently my lawyer was too busy with legitamate cases so I followed up the email above with this one…

Lawyer,

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that my second lengthy email regarding the urinal issue moved me from your “mildly amusing” file to your “he’s on crack/quit bugging me” file. Let me know if I’m reading that right, because if there’s no money to be won, I’m going to go ahead and move forward with notifying the city to see if they’ll do anything. To paraphrase the Beastie Boys, “I’ve got to fight for my right to Potty”.

Thanks,
Matt

Matt,

Well, your second email is still in my in box. I have been traveling a lot so I am having a hard time getting to things. I am not expert in this type of law. I know you're not serious about this, but if you were, I'd recommend contacting an another attorney.

Who knows where you will get with the city.

Lawyer

You're an Eight Update 2

Here is the email exchange that I had with my lawyer regarding my office’s urinals being too close for comfort. I’m hoping that Jim J. Bullock will play me in the made for TV movie.

Hey Lawyer,

At work yesterday, I was urinating and a guy came in and sidled up next to me…there’s really not enough room for two people to pee next to each other and he kind of brushed up against me.

It really pissed me off, so I researched urinal code and the city of Overland Park requires that they be 30 inches center to center (and have a privacy partition, which these do not). I measured and they’re not even 25 inches apart. There’s not enough room to spread them further apart and the city code manager said it would be a lot of work to move them (I haven’t told him how far apart they are). If they took one of the urinals out, I imagine they wouldn’t be up to code with how many toilets they need per employee…but that’s just a guess. If that were the case they’d have to reconfigure every men’s room on all 10 floors of our building. Oh, I guess I’d need to know who owns the building.

So, why wouldn’t I have my lawyer go to my company and inform them that his anonymous client will agree not to inform the city and save them thousands of dollars in repairs in exchange for a large cash payment? Is that illegal? If so, I could get a doctor to write me notes about my newfound fear of urinating in public and subsequent health problems and mental anguish and it could be the next “sue McDonalds because they serve hot coffee” case. Maybe I should have sent this letter to that lawyer on Seinfeld…Jackie Chiles…instead of you.

If you laugh and call this idea ridiculous, then I was just trying to get more material for my blog. If you forsee me being a thousandaire, then I was dead serious. It’s a choose your own adventure lawsuit.

Choose wisely,
Matt

Matt,

Sorry for the late reply. I was traveling all last week. You have presented a very complex problem. However, I do understand you discomfort with the close proximity of the other users. I will have to look into it. The problem is that that the toilets were probably installed under a different code or they never would have passed inspection. I do have to commend you for your research on the urinal code.

Very impressive.
Lawyer

Looking for a life (coach)

Yesterday, I searched for an online community for comedy writers and found writers dot com. It gives aspiring writers the chance to meet/stalk other aspiring writers. Members can post their work and discuss writing on the message boards. On the surface, it appeared to be exactly what I wanted.

But, after a few minutes of navigating through some writing samples, I was having trouble finding people who share my passion for revealing personal mental problems via the written word. So I decided to start clicking profiles to get a feel for the other members. The first profile I looked at said…

“I’m a 35 year old guy and I write teen giantess stories.”

I thought that was pretty funny, until I realized he wasn’t a comedy writer. He went on to talk about a line of teen giantess comic books he was planning to write. Does he write about giant teenage girls? Or does he write giantess stories for teens? Either way it’s a disturbing genre when it’s written by a 35 year-old dude. I felt like I’d accidentally been linked to a bizarro My Space site…where the weirdos are encouraged to admit the depth of their depravity.

As bizarre as this guy seemed, I’m pretty sure he’s the type of guy with whom I need to surround myself if I’m going to be a successful writer. I don’t know what type of writing I want to pursue, so I write whatever moves me on any given day. I end up writing all kinds of random crap without any specific direction or long term plan. I need a writing/life coach to point me in the right direction, much like the twisted mentor who directed the poor 35 year-old freak show to the highly profitable teen giantess market. One day I hope to focus my writing on a topic that’s equally meaningful.

You're an Eight Update

Here’s the follow-up on my previous conversation with the city Plumbing Code Administrator…

PCA,

People actually argued against privacy partitions in urinals? Now there's a cause you can be proud of. What is wrong with people?

Thanks for the info regarding the urinal spacing code. I'm actually going to bring my tape measure in to work to see if the urinals are 30 inches apart. Just out of curiosity, what would the repercussions be if the urinals are not spaced properly?

Thanks,
Matt

Matt,

The issue hasn't come up before so I don't know what action we would take. It would be a big deal to move the urinal; my guess would be that we would be reluctant to get involved over an inch or two.

PCA

That's what she said.






As you can tell by the photos, horizontal stripes are not slimming. As you can also tell, the urinals are more than 5 inches closer than the 30 inch minimum. I have uncovered a huge scandal. I may be in over my head.

Before I think about what to do about this situation, I’ll describe the action that took place to get those pictures taken…

I emailed a friend requesting that he meet me in the 6th floor men’s room to take pictures of me. I was a little uncomfortable with how quickly he agreed. I had a small digital camera, but he showed up with his own industrial sized super camera with wide-angled lens. Again…slightly uncomfortable.

We walked into the bathroom together; me holding the tape measure and him holding his camera…I’m sure that happens all the time in corporate America. Luckily a guy was just finishing his business in stall number two and I quickly walked out while my friend tried to play it off like he had to go.

I waited for a while and after I thought the other guy had left, I walked back in and almost ran into my camera guy, who was nonchalantly walking out of the men's room with a huge camera in his hand. I washed my hands until the other guy left.

My friend came back in and we took the pictures. We left at the same time still holding the camera and tape measure. Someone should have taken a picture of us walking out of the men’s room. It would have been great for a caption contest.

I have indisputable visual evidence that the urinals in my office are way too close together. So now what do I do? Tell the city? Consult high-powered lawyer Denny Crane? To be continued…

Interoffice Romance

My relationship with the office janitor has taken an uncomfortable turn. The last two times I’ve seen him, he’s touched me.

The first time was in the elevator. It seemed innocent enough. I didn’t notice that the elevator was downward bound and I think I got his hopes up when I inadvertently joined him on his ride to the basement. When I realized my mistake, I muttered something about not realizing the elevator was going down. He gave me a reassuring pat on the back, saying, “It’s okay”. He’s like the big brother I wish I never had.

Today I used my newfound Native American powers to sneak up behind him in the break room. I was trying to grab a cup and get out of there before he could see me, but he must have some pretty sweet peripheral vision or maybe he memorized my scent, because he turned around quickly, saying, “Oh boy, you scared me”. I think he wanted to hug it out, but I turned my shoulder, which he patted. I gave a half-hearted smile/look of disgust and got out of there.
So far his touches have been “appropriate” yet unwelcome. But, I’m worried that he’s going to try to take our relationship to the next level and go up my shirt next time.

To Do List:

1) Set up a meeting with the Janitor to clearly define our relationship.

2) Stop wearing blouses with plunging necklines until this blows over.

This is not working

I don’t bother answering my phone at work. People that call me like to work, while I prefer not to. I’ve found that when I let the call go to voicemail, the caller ends up leaving a message that I don’t have to listen to. If I’m slow to respond, they’ll likely find someone else who likes to work. I see myself as the Chuck Woolery of Accounts Payable. I help make love connections between freaks who enjoy Accounting.

I like to think that I don’t work for the good of the company. After all, I’m only pretending to be an accountant. If I try to answer questions and guess wrong, I’m liable to set off a chain reaction that could bring down the entire company.

My degree in English Literature may not qualify me to prescribe antidotes to serious accounting issues, but, it does enable me to write meaningless filler material on the document that summarizes my yearly accomplishments. For example, many people would see not answering my phone as a negative. I’ve clearly explained why that’s not the case, but I can’t be as blunt as I’ve been above for my year-end review. Instead I’ll say, “I have driven efficiency by streamlining the information pipeline”.

Letter to Indians

Today I found a feather in my car, prompting this letter...

Dear Indians,

I’m so sorry. Ever since my people (fat, balding Norwegians with bad moustaches) set foot on your land you’ve had a rough go. For the love of Mike, why in the hell are you still called Indians? America is nowhere near India. Only stupid white men would go 400 years without admitting such an obvious error. Is there a name that you guys prefer…that’s less offensive than “Indians”? How about “Savages”? I’m sure that went over well when you found out what the white man was calling you.

This morning I saw a feather in my car and started thinking about Indian scouts. Now there’s a profession where Mr. Darwin’s theories make sense. If you’re good you can slip away from danger quietly, go home and have relations with your Squaw to produce the next generation of talented scouts. If you suck, you get shot in the face by a musket. The strong survive.

I’m sure in the scout industry there was a “chosen one”…a scout that from the time he was a wee one was going on the talk show circuit showing off his mad scouting skills. He went on to graduate first in his tiptoeing class and was the first to earn a perfect score on the standardized test that measured one’s ability to make weird animal noises with one’s armpits.

But, even the chosen one couldn’t escape the white man’s wrath and was sent to a top secret CIA prison, where his scouting talents were rendered useless. By the time he was released, an Indian Casino and Spa had replaced the forest. What was he supposed to do with his gift? What a wasted life. No wonder he turned to fire water. He was the most respected tip-toer in all the land and suddenly his livelihood, the thing that brought his life meaning, was ripped from him.
So, he’s forced to settle for a job in an Indian casino…where sneaking up on people isn’t much of a challenge. The crowd is mostly blue-hairs with bad hearing. The place is so loud with the clanking of slot machines that creeping up and slitting a geriatric throat or two wouldn’t bring the same sense of accomplishment. The best he can hope for is that one of them has a cardiac arrest when he sneaks up behind them and quickly hands them a 2 for 1 buffet coupon.

While I’ve got your attention, are you happy with your current entertainment in your Indian Casino’s overnight lounge act? Do you have the kind of talent that is so bad that people get up and walk out? I’m that kind of talent.

I’m lucky I was born when I was. If I had tried to outsmart an Indian scout in the old West my fat ass would have stepped on multiple twigs and I would have ended up with a flaming arrow in my eye. But, now, my plodding unfunny schtick can help the Indian people by sending people out of the lounge and back into the casinos to lose their life savings. Usually with my comedy, everybody loses, but this is a chance at redemption for both of us. I’ll swing by later this week; we can smoke a peace pipe and talk more about sticking it to Whitey.

Thanks,
Matt from 2HW

Editor’s Note: Wow. Rarely does my writing have any meaning, but upon further review I realized that I am that Indian Scout…the chosen one. My prison is a tiny little cube that I sit in from 9-5 everyday. My considerable gifts are useless in the world of Accounting. I’m letting the white man stick it to me. So, I can settle: choosing to turn to firewater aka Jack Daniels and rot away and die in prison. Or I can get it together and stick it to the man by writing ridiculous letters from this prison that no one reads.

I sent this letter to Craig and he fired back with this too good to be true link… Akicita. Say hello to my new buddy comedy partner.

I had no idea that Atkinson was an Indian name. In addition to being my namesake, this guy appears to be my soul mate. He’s everything that Craig wasn’t. He’s a real Native American, he plays the cello, wrote a 530 page book on Indian rights, and is working on a rock music project. He sounds hilarious. Wait. What? You say he’s serious? Oh my…lanta.

His son, aka “his most important struggle”, is in for a hell of a life. It’s bad enough trying to grow up in the shadow of such a well-known father, but to try to make it through life with the name Cheyenne River Atkinson is going to be rough. And here I thought my cousin Honey Lou Atkinson had it bad.

Picture Cheyenne River on the first day of school, playing the “What did you do this summer?” game. Cheyenne’s response, “Not much. Probably the highlight was helping my mom bail the Warrior out of jail when his one man protest at the Home Depot went horribly wrong”.

Letter to Congressman

Yesterday, I posted a letter to people who make my life miserable via email. Today, I’m doing something about it. Tomorrow, the world will be a better place if you join my campaign by mailing the letter below to your congressman.

Dear Congressman,

I’m writing today to make you aware of a problem that is spiraling out of control in corporate America. Sarbanes-Oxley was put in place to protect American workers from another Enron-like debacle. Yet, there is currently nothing to protect us from a horrific problem that affects every single employee in Corporate America.

Before I get into the issue, I’d like to talk a little bit about hate crimes. I believe hate crimes often get negative press, because the victims don’t deserve to be hated. When simple minded Neanderthals decide to perform despicable acts based on a person’s skin color, religion or sexual orientation, there is absolutely no way to justify that type of behavior.

But, what if I told you the type of behavior I’m seeing every day in corporate America was so bad that it made hate crimes justifiable? As you’ve probably guessed, I’m speaking of the growing trend of people putting ridiculous quotes in their email auto-signatures. When someone ends an email using 18 point, italicized, turquoise font saying, “If you see someone without a smile today, give them one of yours,” they deserve to be punished to the fullest extent of the law.

Yet, the law does not yet protect me and other at-risk Corporate Americans from these types of nutjobs. People all over our great district are suffering at the hands of these people, who
feel it’s appropriate to close an email to a complete stranger with, “If you want to be a smart cookie, you can’t have a crumby attitude,” or…
Together
Everyone
Accomplishes
More

These people must be stopped.

I’d love to do it myself, but if I learned anything from Judge Wapner, it’s that I shouldn’t take the law into my own hands. Plus, I’m an Accountant with no Capitol Hill knowledge outside of that cute little cartoon Bill who wanted to be turned into a law. So, I’d like you to draft up a cute little bill that would legalize hate crimes against those who choose to send these types of emails.

For simplicity’s sake and because everything in Corporate America has an acronym, I’ve come with a word to identify these people…QUEERs. That’s an acronym for QUoters who send Exasperating Emails Regularly.

I understand that you might at first be hesitant to sponsor a bill legalizing hate crimes against QUEERs, because to some that might be offensive. So, let me redefine the term “hate crime”. (As soon as I post my definition on Wikipedia.org, it will be universally accepted as fact.) In no way am I saying you should endorse groups that set fire to these people’s cubicles or spray paint “Stay Home QUEERs” on their desks. The type of hate crime that I’m picturing is something equivalent to the opposite of the National Do Not Call list (which protects Americans from unwanted calls from telemarketers). Hate crimes against QUEERs would involve turning over QUEER’s email addresses to every possible type of mass email list. QUEERs would be SPAMed until they are rendered useless…their entire day would be spent deleting the millions of emails they would receive.

It seems like a simple solution to a massive problem, but I can’t do it without your help. While you’re working on drafting the bill, I’ll start a volunteer group to administrate this non-partisan grassroots campaign. It’ll be called I’ll Rally Against QUEERs. Please do your part in the fight against QUEERs by changing your auto-signature to look like the one below…

Thanks,
Matt

Proud Supporter of
I’ll
Rally
Against
QUEERs

Don't Quote Me

Dear People whose email auto-signatures contain ridiculous quotes,

I hate you.

Don’t misinterpret that. I didn’t say that I hate your auto-signature. Or your quote. It’s you. I hate you.

Why do you think I’d be the least bit interested/amused/inspired by one of quotes like the ones below that I pulled from actual emails you’ve sent me…

“If you see someone without a smile today, give them one of yours.”

“Can and Cannot is always the right answer, which one are YOU?” (Side note: Does that even make sense? If anyone can explain it, please leave a comment.)

“If you want to be a smart cookie, you can’t have a crumby attitude.”

You horrible people need to be punished. It’s bad enough that you include these quotes in work related emails, but you increase my cringe-factor tenfold with the fonts you choose for your mini-motivational speech. I’ve collected over 60 samples, and in every single one of them the oversized, colored font used for the quote is either bold or in italics.

Please stop the insanity before you get hurt. If you choose to continue to use a quote in your auto-signature, please stop reading my blog and get bent.

Thanks,
Matt

If you’re still reading, please open Microsoft Outlook and go to Tools > Options > Mail Format > Signatures > New. Title it “Work’s for PHAGS”. Click Advanced Edit and copy and paste the signature below into the box. Insert a hyperlink to this page and change the names, font and formatting as you see fit. Click Finish and give yourself a high five.

Your Name Here
Company de la Man
“I support Matt’s legislation to legalize hate crimes against idiots who put stupid cheer-me-up quotes in their auto-signatures.”

Thank you for your support in promoting the first-ever meaningful auto-signature quote.

That's Freaking Teamwork?

On a typical weekday I put on my Accountant costume and pretend to work in Corporate Accounts Payable. Today, however, was not a typical weekday. It was our dreaded team builder, and for this special occasion the Man instructed us to dress wacky. That proved to be asking too much. When I got to the bowling alley, it looked like just another Casual Friday. Accountants don’t do wacky.

Even the Man herself, our VP/Controller, was a little confused by the concept. She told us that she had a reputation for hating tennis shoes, but in an effort to be wacky wore one tennis shoe and held up her foot to reveal this.

Technically, the correct pronunciation of that word is “san-dull”.

All told, there were 9 people out of 142 who dressed wacky. 7 of the 9 were The Man and her directors. One of the other two was the MC for the event. Ordinarily, an MC might be chosen for their personality. Ours barely had a pulse. He’s the department Actuary. We found out the hard way that the only way to make a gathering of 142 Accountants any less fun is to have an Actuary as the comedic centerpiece.

In between every speaker, he gave us Geography quizes. No joke. He’d try to mix in something funny every once in a while, but bombed. To put his sense of humor in perspective, his costume consisted of a sombrero, a poncho, a painted-on moustache and a golf club. He was the “Golf of Mexico”. That was literally his best joke of the day.

Luckily for him, he’ll be forgotten because our motivational speaker was even worse. A former major league ball player (FML) delivered a speech that gave us the same amount of hope as a typical Matt Foley speech, but without Matt’s trademark energy.

FML was equal parts monotonous and clueless. His whole speech was a train wreck. It had no flow or cohesion. He kept talking about us making sales, apparently not realizing that we’re all Accountants. He made no effort to be funny and didn’t tell us any cool war stories from his days in the bigs.

He opened by telling us we might not know that there are a lot of similarities between baseball and business. He proceeded to tell us none of those similarities. Instead, he chose to tell us the job of each batter in a baseball lineup. The funny part was he really didn’t have any clue what each batter was supposed to do.

Some lowlights…He claimed that the sixth hitter “has to get on base any way he can…that’s his job”. The seventh hitter has to bunt, “he has no choice.” He claimed the number two hitter could get 3 or 4 hundred at bats a year. Try 5 or 6 hundred. He didn’t mention the importance of batting the team’s power hitters in the 3 and 4 holes, but instead said that they need to hit .290, .300, or .340. The number 5 hitters made the most money and got all the glory because they drove in those 3 and 4 hitters who were always on base.

He continued his great baseball analogy by telling us that he had porters at his Bowling Alley who were supposed to clean the lanes when people left. If they didn’t do their job, the next customer would come in, complain about the dirty lanes, and get a refund. Which I took to mean that he was likening us to his porters. As long as we do the grunt work, people like him will get rich. If we screw up, it will cost the Man money. The end result was probably not the desired form of motivation…I’m more motivated than ever to stick it to the Man via this blog.

The meeting was held in FML’s restaurant. His Neanderthal “me throw ball fast” persona carried over to the signage in the bar. One sign read, “No coolers or ice chests are allowed.” Could that possibly be a big enough issue to warrant a sign being made? What kind of moron thinks that it’s appropriate to BYOB to a restaurant? Another small sign was hung at eye level behind the bar it read, “Cod fish sandwich $4.95”. I’m sure a lot of people head up to the bar for a Bud Light, but are convinced to get the Cod fish sandwich instead due to the brilliantly placed advertisement.

The afternoon speaker is crucial at these events. He’s usually a high-energy funnyman who wakes us up after we overload our bellies with free food. We were lucky enough to get a VP from marketing. But, he began by saying, “I’m very comfortable speaking to groups like this because I began my career as an Accountant”. That was it for me. I had to go take a walk.

Somehow I made it through the mini-golf and bowling activities without killing any of my socially awkward colleagues. Next year I’ll be taking a vacation day instead of attending this event. Wait, if I’m still pretending to be an Accountant at this time next year something’s gone horribly wrong. Who knows what could happen by then? With a lot of hard work on this blog maybe next year at this time I’ll be cleaning the bowling lanes rather than suffering through manufactured corporate fun.

Mandatory Fun

Tomorrow we have a team builder/training session scheduled at a bowling alley. The agenda said our time will be split between “personal development” and corporate America’s version of fun. The meeting maker for the event had two options: Attend or Take a Vacation Day. Forcing me to have a good time or take vacation didn’t sit well with me. Would it be asking too much for me to want to come in to the office and work (on my blog)? Here are the emails I sent to HR on the issue…

HR contact,

We are having a team builder tomorrow at Incredi-Bowl and are being forced to either attend the “fun” or take a vacation day. I’ve had about all the manufactured departmental fun that one guy can take and would greatly prefer to just do my regular job. Is there any policy against forcing employees to take a vacation day if they don’t attend a team builder?

If it helps my cause, I could produce a doctor’s note that says I have a fun allergy.

Thanks,

Matt

(HR requested I call to discuss)

HR,
I’d feel awkward discussing the subject on the phone with my boss sitting in the next cube. More than anything, I was frustrated this morning to get yet another email with 48 point green font reminding me to dress wacky for this required event. If it’s acceptable per HR policies to force us to team build or take a vacation day, that’s fine. Let me know if that’s the case and I’ll be done with it. I’ll just paint on a smile and sing the (Company Name) fight song with the rest of the group.

Thanks,

Matt

I cannot get away from corporate fun. The fun committee lady came by today as I was borrowing a co-workers camera to take a picture of me by the urinal. She is a lady that I had already tried to stay away from. She’s loud, obnoxious and tries to talk to you in the elevator. Now that I know she heads departmental fun, I am convinced that the meetings would result in this blog’s best material to date. But, I can’t possibly bring myself to join the committee. I need to figure out a way to give her my audio recorder to record the meetings.

When she came by she said, “You’re on Blank 1’s team, right?” We reluctantly said, “Yes”. She said that no one from our team had volunteered for the fun committee. I sarcastically said, “Really? That’s very surprising”. She said she heard that Blank 2 was fun and I told her that Blank 2 has led the league in fun all semester and would be a great candidate. She rolled her eyes and walked away. Funtastic.

You're an Eight

I had a horrifying restroom experience yesterday, which prompted the email below to the city Plumbing Code Administrator…

PCA,

The urinals at my place of business seem to be dangerously close together. I just had the worst case of stage fright I’d ever experienced while attempting to urinate. There’s usually an unspoken rule observed in our office restroom that you use the sit-down toilets if someone else is using one of the two urinals. The guy that entered the restroom just after me was either into me or was unaware of such a rule, because he sidled up right next to me and went about his business. I’m pretty sure at one point if our shoulders weren’t touching, our shirts certainly must have been. I was in such shock that I just stood there frozen, unable to start urinating. He finished and left before I could get my floodgates to open.

Afterwards, I thought “Surely there must be a law against urinals being so close together that men literally rub elbows with each other while urinating”. Thankfully, when I googled “code for required inches between urinals”, the first link was Overland Park’s adoption of the new 2006 plumbing codes. It listed you as the contact for such issues.

I’m writing today to ask you if the code requiring partitions between urinals has been adopted and to see if there is a standard distance that is required between urinals. I’d hate to have to start peeing sitting down, but I’d rather look like a chick than have some dude leaning on me while I’m trying to relieve myself.

Thanks,
Matt

Matt,

The minimum clear space between urinals is 30 inches (center to center). There will be a new provision in the 2006 plumbing which will mandate privacy partitions between urinals. I welcomed this change. However, you would not believe all the people who argued against it.

PCA

To Do List:
1) Bring tape measure to work tomorrow.
2) Write a letter to my congressman requesting the death penalty be reinstated for people who fight against privacy partitions between public urinals.

Popcorn Update

I should have never started this section. I feel like I know too much. My life could be in danger. I don’t know how John Stossel does it. In a previous post, I mentioned our inability to pop popcorn in our building due to it being against the fire code. Now, the truth…

Email from Blank to our Building Facilities Manager:

BFM,

Do you have any idea where we can pop popcorn in this building? Never heard the fire code problem before I came here; was hoping it was to do with the wattage on our microwave or something; does there happen to be one in this building on another floor that allows popcorn to be popped? Also is there a toaster anywhere?

Blank

Response:

Blank,

The real reason we do not pop popcorn in the building is due to the fact that we have had to evacuate the building too many times because people would put the popcorn in the microwaves unattended and the popcorn would burn and set off the fire alarms. It happened way too many times.

I might suggest that you pop your popcorn at home and bring it to work.

BFM

Oh my gato. I wish this were a joke. That’s the real response. Facilities took the time and effort to print up phony fire code signs on every floor of our 10-story building. And yet, they freely admit that the signs aren’t real, but still try to force us to follow the made-up popcorn law by encouraging us to pop popcorn at home.

I may have the exact same microwave at home, but any fires I start there don’t burden the Facilities Team with unnecessary work. Plus, who doesn’t love room temperature day-old Orville Redenbacher’s?

You might find it hard to believe that overmicrowaving popcorn to the point of setting off a fire alarm could happen once, let alone “way too many times”. If so, you’ve never worked in corporate America.

I can think of several people in my group who could pull it off. Our company might be capable of showing a profit if it weren’t staffed with people who not only lack the ability to accurately program a microwave, but also don’t have the attention span to sit through 3 minutes of popping.

I knew a guy in college who forced the evacuation of his entire dorm when he microwaved his feces for 15 minutes. And not even he is dumb enough to take a job in corporate America.
Meanwhile, popcorn continues to be sold in every vending machine, tempting my moronic co-workers to burn down our building.

Letter to Tom Cruise

Dear Tom Cruise,

When did it all go so horribly wrong?

Everyone used to love the fun loving, non-controversial, fighter pilot, lawyer, bartender, pimp, boxer, vampire, high school football star, pool hustler, Vietnam War vet, large animal vet, race care driver Tom. You may not have won any Oscars, but you should have…if only the Academy considered characters played off-screen. Throughout your glory years, you brilliantly played the heterosexual All-American movie star in public.

But then, inexplicably, you broke character. You stopped reading from the scripts your PR team created and started speaking for yourself. Whoops! When you took off the shiny wrapper no one liked what was underneath. It was like finding out who’s really behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz, a pathetic fraction of the man you thought you’d see.

You began your freefall off the sanity wagon by picking a fight with Matt Lauer about his lack of understanding of the history of psychiatry. You jumped all over Oprah’s nice furniture and declared your crazy love for 17 year-old Katie Holmes. You used Katie to attempt to prove that you could father a child, but wouldn’t let her talk during childbirth. You became such an expert on motherhood that you felt obligated to criticize Brooke Shields for taking medication for postpartum depression.

Your conduct not only cost your production company its deal with Paramount Pictures, but also earned you public criticism from the big boss, Viacom CEO Sumner Redstone. Next thing you know, you’re 35% public approval rating was lower than that of President Bush.

So, you panicked and let your PR team write you an apology to Brooke Shields. After the photo-op, Brooke publicly read from the script, “He…gave me a heartfelt apology. I was so impressed with how heartfelt he was.” Repairing your image with drug using mothers was that simple.
It kind of reminded me of your PR team’s attempts to shape public perception of you, Katie, and Suri. Not many people got to see little baby Suri (probably because newly published photos make the baby appear to be Asian) but those who did had very similar impressions that were somehow leaked to the press.

Leah Remini said, “She looks like Tom and Katie” and “Cruise and Holmes are just great parents. There wasn’t a second she was out of their arms except when I held her.” Compare those to Vanity Fair editor Jane Sarkin’s comments, “The baby is really a combination (of Tom and Katie). They are extremely hands on (parents)”.

When people leave your compound their eyes are glossed over and they all end up piling the same type of praise on you and your family. It’s like you’re a second rate magician/hypnotist who forgot to snap his fingers and wake them up at the end of the show. They say whatever you’ve programmed them to say.

That is awesome!

Please tell me how you do your trick. I need people to want to view me a lot and after viewing me, in a monotone voice say, “Matt is a Wonder with a beautiful moustache. He is not an Accountant. He is the voice of his generation. I have no idea why he is not on the Hollywood A-List”.

When we get together to talk about brainwashing my fans, I’d like to discuss “Mission Impossible 4″. It looks like it will not happen, unless the budget is drastically cut. You might have to do your own stunts. I don’t have any experience as a stunt coordinator, but I’d be happy to volunteer to pack your parachute.

Thanks,
Matt from 2HW

P.S. I just got the results back from 1-800-DNA-TYPE. I am the real father of Suri.

Fun Committee Update

Against my better judgment, I just opened an email with the subject “Fun committee”. After reading it, I proceeded to turn my left palm face up and repeatedly pounded my forehead with that palm, while saying things like “Why?” “Make it stop” and “What the hell is wrong with me that I ended up here?”

The email was from the fun committee chair (FCC), who works in Capital Asset Accounting. How could putting someone from CAA in charge of departmental fun possibly go wrong? Due to departmental common sense, she ran for Fun Chair unopposed. It took two full weeks for one other human to lose their mind and volunteer to join the committee, yet FCC’s email requested that two additional representatives be added to the committee…from each team.

A twelve-person team tasked with making work fun seems about right. I’m sure the volunteers from Gross-Margin Accounting and Accounts Payable Accounting Support will have some groundbreaking ideas in fun making. It’s almost enough to make me want to volunteer for the committee. The material gained from those meetings would be priceless. But, surely I wouldn’t be able to stay in character if FCC’s spoken word is as entertaining as her written word.
Here’s an unedited excerpt from the email, “The representatives will help come up with Idea’s and concepts for monthly events that will encourage camaraderie and fun. We need to have a little fun some times are we will all go nuts.”

Dear FCC,

Trust me when I tell you that you’re not going to want to bring your fun “Idea’s” and concepts anywhere near me, “are” I really am going to go nuts.

Thanks,
Matt from 2HW