I'll start this off with one declaration: Pussy is a commodity. You read that right. Just like copper, toilet paper, and that crazy corn that many a Mexican are protesting over. (The demand is high these days if you missed it.) Pussy comes and goes, and some women seem to think that they they have the pussy game on lock. They don't. Sorry ladies, but you're not the only store in town. As much as it cracks me up, I hate to break it to you.
I've noticed that women are much like the folks in the diamond industry in that respect. Their goal is to create an artificial demand for a product that is always in abundant supply. Before the airwaves were flooded with DeBeers commercials, and random bitches started talking about "what any man worth his salt" would buy, diamonds were around. The problem with this was that men didn't pay attention to that bullshit. Men were busy with more important things the entire time, as always. While women were busy worrying about pretty things that sparkled, we were doing things that WE deemed important. We were making fire. We were forging nations. We were establishing political and geographic boundaries--testing the limits of human endurance. You know, manly shit. We were still up to our old antics, hunting and trapping shit of course. But I digress. Women, on the other hand were caught up in pretty shit. We couldn't care less.
The problem is that hustlers responsible for the diamond trade knew this. They said to themselves, "Gentlemen, we have to come up with a way to make money outside of this whole subsistence thing. We have to change the game. We have to find some other shit. We have to find some shit that people don't know about, and line them up like fiends." (The drug game is a whole different story, but this was before that came about. A man had to have a hustle.)
Enter diamonds. Everyone has heard the story about time, pressure, and a lump of coal. I'll skip the geology lesson because there are far smarter people that can address that topic ad nauseum. Google it, motherfucker. What I'm talking about right now are diamonds, and their effect on the rest of the world. I mean, seriously who was the genius that actually sat down and put pen to paper on this one? How did the agenda read? I'll bet it went something like this:
I. Find a rock.
II. Pretend it's valuable.
III. Sell that motherfucker.
You have to admire the beauty of simplicity sometimes.
So back to my point. Diamonds. This has been a recurring theme recently, as many of my friends have recently been (or are being) married. One thing that immediately comes to mind is the womens' discussion of "the ring." There is talk about the four "C's" and a bunch of other bullshit that doesn't make sense, but that's another topic that someone else can blog to their hearts' content. It just won't be me.
Where was I? Oh that's right, supply and demand. The whole diamond craze was started by some dude that decided that they had to create this artificial supply for something that no one really cared about in the first place, so he had his work cut out for him. Then again, not really. All this man had to do was find a product that he could market to the masses, and build on that desire. The plan was simple. He could just convince women that they had to have said product, and men would line up in droves to buy it for them.
"But that's crazy," you say. "What on Earth would make men do such a thing?"
In a word, pussy. As badly as women love to inspire envy in other women, men want women. Problem solved. This is where the econ lesson comes into play. Men are convinced that women are in scarce supply. Some would argue only the "good" ones are scarce, but that's a story unto itself. Believing that women are in scarce supply, men go to great lengths to get them. The only problem with this airtight logic is that they aren't. You can't walk down a city street without seeing women on a daily basis. They're not spotted owls or bald eagles, they're everywhere. The problem with men is that we're stubborn, and you can't really convince us of anything contrary to our beliefs unless you have proof--or it airs on SportsCenter.
So given this rationale, it's not hard to see why men are perpetually on a quest for women. There's not a day that goes by that the average man isn't thinking about women. We think they're special. They also get naked from time to time. This brings us back to the pussy. Men are logical beings. Every thought pattern follows a natural progression. It may not be readily apparent at the time, but it's there. This is why men think pussy is scarce. Allow me to illustrate.
Men already believe that women are scarce, as evidenced by their behavior. They are protective. Sometimes jealous. They don't want anyone near their women that they feel they can't trust. Family included. They do this because they think that women are these illusive beings that only come around every once in a while, much like lottery winnings or all green lights on the way to work.
This belief that women are scarce also means that pussy is scarce. The problem is that it isn't. The "market" has been flooded with pussy for longer than most people realize. I mean seriously, what do we call "the world's oldest profession?" Prostitution. Women were out selling pussy on corners long before anyone ever even heard the name "WaWa" or "7-11." Not to mention the fact that most women will give it away for a variety of reasons. Anything from broad shoulders, strong hands, a nice smile, or a dead pet can get a man pussy. He just has to be in the right place at the right time. There's also all the secondary markets for pussy. Countless sexual encounters have occurred based solely upon whatever crisis a woman encountered at the time.
A woman breaks up with her boyfriend? More pussy. Daddy was drunk and missed one too many recitals while his daughter grew up? More pussy. A woman feeling self-conscious because she put on a few pounds? More pussy. The list is endless.
This all leads to the conclusion that pussy, while not worthless, is extremely overvalued as a commodity.
Think about it.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The Razor's Edge
I work in a fairly large office comprised of a sea of cubicles. This is common in today's workplace. Of course this arrangement is accompanied with the normal annoyances. You have the people bringing in their disgusting lunches for consumption. No one is really sure if it's a botched dinner experiment or some regional delicacy from a place that you never want to visit. All you know is that it smells like burnt flesh. Or something equally heinous. (I know that most people don't have any idea what burning flesh smells like, but it ranks up there as one of the worst scents a person could ever be assaulted with experiencing--ever. Take my word on that one.) There's the random person that farts in their cube and hopes that no one will hear it. Then again, the point can be raised that it's not really a matter of HEARING it so much as smelling it. This rotten motherfucker knows what the fuck they ate the night before, but they think that they are somehow safe. Perhaps if they sit still in their chairs, the smell won't permeate the adjoining eight workspaces. The seat cushion will absorb it, right? Bullshit. This strategy never seems to work. There are the speakerphone concalls, and of course the "I haven't seen you in forever!" random visits. Why these people immediately forget that there are others doing work near them is beyond me. Haven't they ever heard of taking a person out to lunch? Catching up? That shit works too, you loud motherfucker.
Then again, those are mild in comparison to the razor. I've worked in many different parts of the country, but the razor seems to be primarily an east coast phenomenon. The razor is that one woman that happens to have the most annoying, whiny, nasally voice ever bestowed upon any individual that walks the Earth. You know it when you hear it. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of our office offender is Alanis Morisette's voice in the movie "Dogma." A full exchange could very well drive a man insane, or burst his eardrums at the very least. Every hello takes no less than a full five seconds. The hairs on your neck stand on end. She begins with the pleading cry of "Hiiiiiii, how are youuuuuuu!" as everyone else cringes. Sometimes you grab for a pen, in hopes that you can puncture both eardrums before the conversation continues. I could make the comparison between her voice and being catheterized, but that really does her no justice. She is an abomination to all office productivity. As I sit in my workspace plotting her untimely demise, the screech continues.
"I'm goooood, how's everythiiiiiing?"
The razor strikes again. I think back to the times when my mother used to say "If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all." The razor didn't get that memo. Even when she's delivering good news, it sounds bad. As a matter of fact now that I think about it, everything sounds bad. Given the fact that I'm a watch-wearing basket case with a mild case of OCD, she could tell me what time it is and I want to punch her in the face. I know, anger management you say. I say fuck you. I'm venting.
Personally, I consider myself a good samaritan in some respects. If I hear someone talking too loud in their corner of the world, I do the neighborly thing and throw something at them. It's the least I can do. I figure if they can continue their bullshit conversation while being bombarded with random objects they deserve to continue. While juvenile and sometimes dangerous, this serves as an effective deterrent. To date, I'm only down a couple of Post-It pads and a stapler. Shit happens, but I digress.
I guess the worst part of it all, is that there are so many that have accepted the razor's behavior as the "cost of doing business." I have not. Then again, I guess that's why I've decided to go back to school. I have to climb the ladder, not for the love of money, but for my sanity. Leaving the corporate slums requires me to step my work game up considerably.
I'm up to the challenge.
Then again, those are mild in comparison to the razor. I've worked in many different parts of the country, but the razor seems to be primarily an east coast phenomenon. The razor is that one woman that happens to have the most annoying, whiny, nasally voice ever bestowed upon any individual that walks the Earth. You know it when you hear it. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of our office offender is Alanis Morisette's voice in the movie "Dogma." A full exchange could very well drive a man insane, or burst his eardrums at the very least. Every hello takes no less than a full five seconds. The hairs on your neck stand on end. She begins with the pleading cry of "Hiiiiiii, how are youuuuuuu!" as everyone else cringes. Sometimes you grab for a pen, in hopes that you can puncture both eardrums before the conversation continues. I could make the comparison between her voice and being catheterized, but that really does her no justice. She is an abomination to all office productivity. As I sit in my workspace plotting her untimely demise, the screech continues.
"I'm goooood, how's everythiiiiiing?"
The razor strikes again. I think back to the times when my mother used to say "If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all." The razor didn't get that memo. Even when she's delivering good news, it sounds bad. As a matter of fact now that I think about it, everything sounds bad. Given the fact that I'm a watch-wearing basket case with a mild case of OCD, she could tell me what time it is and I want to punch her in the face. I know, anger management you say. I say fuck you. I'm venting.
Personally, I consider myself a good samaritan in some respects. If I hear someone talking too loud in their corner of the world, I do the neighborly thing and throw something at them. It's the least I can do. I figure if they can continue their bullshit conversation while being bombarded with random objects they deserve to continue. While juvenile and sometimes dangerous, this serves as an effective deterrent. To date, I'm only down a couple of Post-It pads and a stapler. Shit happens, but I digress.
I guess the worst part of it all, is that there are so many that have accepted the razor's behavior as the "cost of doing business." I have not. Then again, I guess that's why I've decided to go back to school. I have to climb the ladder, not for the love of money, but for my sanity. Leaving the corporate slums requires me to step my work game up considerably.
I'm up to the challenge.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The MCI Saga
I don’t know how, but MCI manages to find new ways to screw up billing daily. The funniest part about the latest ordeal is that they weren’t even managing this account anymore. They had already sold off their residential services to Verizon, but I guess they felt as though they needed to screw me over one last time. I was looking over a recent credit report, as I’m looking to purchase a new place. I get back the one from Experian, and I notice that there’s a random charge on there from some collections agency. They claim that I owe $49.19 in long distance from MCI. The date they reported this? December 17, 2004. Remember that date.
That date is significant because it means that this was right around Christmas time in 2004. Not only do I remember this charge, but I remember the entire harrowing ordeal. I call it an ordeal because MCI came up with one of the most annoying “policies” that I’ve ever heard of to date. I was trying to connect my land line following my relocation from Boston. I get all the rest of my utilities connected in short order, and now I’m down to the phone line. Sweet—or so I thought. I call MCI (they had control over the number that I was calling from at the time) to get the service started, and they say that there’s a “hold” on the number. They say that I’m going to have to call someone in collections (Remember, this is the initial setup. I have never used a phone besides my cell.) to get the number out of hold.
I speak with someone in collections, and they tell me that the reason the number is on “hold” is because the person that lived there before me (after they ask if I’m in any way connected to this woman) didn’t pay the bill. I tell them that’s a touching story, but I don’t care. I just moved here, and I’d like to get the number activated. Remember, it’s December 15th. They tell me that they have to escalate the ticket, and it has to go through an approval process because they can’t authorize the hold release without some form of payment entering the system. I tell them this is nonsense. Then I ask them how long it’s going to take for this “process” to be completed. What’s their answer? 7-10 business days. That’s right. 7-10 business days.
So here it is, one week before Christmas and I have no phone. I still have my cell phone mind you, but that’s not the point. I’ve become quite used to the idea of having a land line. I know it’s quickly becoming a relic of the past, but truth be told, I think still think they’re pretty useful. How many times have you walked somewhere within your home only to find that dead area where there is absolutely no cellular signal whatsoever? How annoying is that? What about the times when you’re on hold for 1/2 an hour dealing with some customer service queue? Do you really want to waste that many of your minutes on a cell phone? I don’t. But I digress. The point of the story is that these idiots told me that it was impossible for them to resolve a situation with a weeks’ time. I would not be able to call my family from my new residence because of the person that lived there before me? Were these people serious?
I was livid. The first thing that I did was call customer service again to file a formal complaint. Then I called again. (I did this because customer service departments conveniently drop your call when you’re pissed off—funny how that works, isn’t it?)
I wondered why MCI was providing local service here in the first place? Why couldn’t I simply choose a different carrier? Was New Jersey that much different from the rest of the world? What did I get myself into here?
I stopped fuming long enough to call Verizon. I ask them if there’s anything that I can do to resolve the situation, and whether they can take over the billing for the number. They tell me of course they can. They can have the number working by tomorrow. Fuck you, MCI. (Even though you can’t see me, but I’m flipping them off right now.)
I ask the Verizon rep is there anything that I have to do or whether there’s any notification to provide to MCI. She says since I never had service with them, I don’t have to do anything. That’s great. My phone works and I don’t have to sit through another MCI prompt. A couple days go by, and I receive a letter in the mail. It’s from MCI. It states that I owe about $50 for service that I never received. Smoke is pouring out of my ears all over again. I call them up and speak with a representative. The rep was really nice, and apologized for the error. She says that she’ll send out an updated bill showing a zero balance on my account. I was relieved. That was up until the point that I see yet another fucking charge on my credit report, two years later. It wasn’t even the same amount that was allegedly “owed” on the final bill! The first thing that I did was dispute the charge, which was promptly dropped. I couldn’t believe that those assholes reported the wrong information to some collections company and expected me to pay for it!
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. here’s a big “fuck you” to MCI. You’ve earned it.
That date is significant because it means that this was right around Christmas time in 2004. Not only do I remember this charge, but I remember the entire harrowing ordeal. I call it an ordeal because MCI came up with one of the most annoying “policies” that I’ve ever heard of to date. I was trying to connect my land line following my relocation from Boston. I get all the rest of my utilities connected in short order, and now I’m down to the phone line. Sweet—or so I thought. I call MCI (they had control over the number that I was calling from at the time) to get the service started, and they say that there’s a “hold” on the number. They say that I’m going to have to call someone in collections (Remember, this is the initial setup. I have never used a phone besides my cell.) to get the number out of hold.
I speak with someone in collections, and they tell me that the reason the number is on “hold” is because the person that lived there before me (after they ask if I’m in any way connected to this woman) didn’t pay the bill. I tell them that’s a touching story, but I don’t care. I just moved here, and I’d like to get the number activated. Remember, it’s December 15th. They tell me that they have to escalate the ticket, and it has to go through an approval process because they can’t authorize the hold release without some form of payment entering the system. I tell them this is nonsense. Then I ask them how long it’s going to take for this “process” to be completed. What’s their answer? 7-10 business days. That’s right. 7-10 business days.
So here it is, one week before Christmas and I have no phone. I still have my cell phone mind you, but that’s not the point. I’ve become quite used to the idea of having a land line. I know it’s quickly becoming a relic of the past, but truth be told, I think still think they’re pretty useful. How many times have you walked somewhere within your home only to find that dead area where there is absolutely no cellular signal whatsoever? How annoying is that? What about the times when you’re on hold for 1/2 an hour dealing with some customer service queue? Do you really want to waste that many of your minutes on a cell phone? I don’t. But I digress. The point of the story is that these idiots told me that it was impossible for them to resolve a situation with a weeks’ time. I would not be able to call my family from my new residence because of the person that lived there before me? Were these people serious?
I was livid. The first thing that I did was call customer service again to file a formal complaint. Then I called again. (I did this because customer service departments conveniently drop your call when you’re pissed off—funny how that works, isn’t it?)
I wondered why MCI was providing local service here in the first place? Why couldn’t I simply choose a different carrier? Was New Jersey that much different from the rest of the world? What did I get myself into here?
I stopped fuming long enough to call Verizon. I ask them if there’s anything that I can do to resolve the situation, and whether they can take over the billing for the number. They tell me of course they can. They can have the number working by tomorrow. Fuck you, MCI. (Even though you can’t see me, but I’m flipping them off right now.)
I ask the Verizon rep is there anything that I have to do or whether there’s any notification to provide to MCI. She says since I never had service with them, I don’t have to do anything. That’s great. My phone works and I don’t have to sit through another MCI prompt. A couple days go by, and I receive a letter in the mail. It’s from MCI. It states that I owe about $50 for service that I never received. Smoke is pouring out of my ears all over again. I call them up and speak with a representative. The rep was really nice, and apologized for the error. She says that she’ll send out an updated bill showing a zero balance on my account. I was relieved. That was up until the point that I see yet another fucking charge on my credit report, two years later. It wasn’t even the same amount that was allegedly “owed” on the final bill! The first thing that I did was dispute the charge, which was promptly dropped. I couldn’t believe that those assholes reported the wrong information to some collections company and expected me to pay for it!
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. here’s a big “fuck you” to MCI. You’ve earned it.
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