The PWC2 Introduction

Well, it's 4:30 PM, here at my desk, and in keeping with item #6, I have accomplished quite a bit today! More, in fact, than I'd even originally planned on. However, in dissonance with the aforementioned item, there is not a chance in holy Hades that I am going to do one more second of work for these bastards on this particular day. Not this kid.

Trouble is, when we were picking desks in our new office, I displayed approximately the intelligence and forethought of a used adult diaper. Looking around the room, surmising the situation, I eventually made my choice: "I'd like this desk here, which is faced directly by my boss' desk, so that I will never be able to sneak out of the office, and when I want to screw around and surf the net and write my little 'intros', I'll have to do it in a tiny, scrunched little window at the bottom of my screen, so that it's hidden by my slumping torso." So I'm stuck here until dude leaves, which could be in 15 minutes, or it could be in two hours. I have no way of knowing. So, my immediate future is unfortunately subject to the whims and agendas of this squeaky-voiced little weasel.

The window I'm typing this in is approximately one inch tall. This is no way to live.

The other problem right now (as has been the problem for the past year and a half) is that as I sit here staring at this little one-inch-tall window, I cannot think of one damn thing to write about. I haven't been able to think of anything to write about since I started Jetstream, and even then it was just a lot of self-pitying bitching and moaning about my stupid life and my stupid cats and how I couldn't think of anything to write about.

But I'm going to write anyway. And you know why? Because hopefully, by just spilling my guts to you people in a cathartic, cleansing release of frustrations, angers, hopes, fears, and dreams... by letting it all pour out onto the screen for the entire world to see... by doing all of that, I may in fact be able to kill a good half hour to 45 minutes, which would bring us up to the time weasel-face usually weasels his weasely ass out of here.

Hey, I know what I'll do. I'll talk about my day! Maybe, if it goes well, we can turn this into a "regular feature". Wouldn't that be neat?

Anyway, today started exactly the same as every other weekday has started for me for the better part of the last sixteen years:

7:25 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
7:34 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
7:43 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
7:52 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:01 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:10 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:19 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:28 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:37 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:46 - Alarm goes off. Snooze button.
8:55 - Alarm goes off. I get out of bed.

Ahh, shit. I just overheard a conversation wherein douchebutt explained to his boss (who, for the record, is the ultimate slimeball of the world) that the "special project" he's working on will be done in "about an hour". And now it's 5:00 PM, which means that he won't be done until... 6:00 PM. If I had a snooze button here, I would hit it 6.67 times. Oh, and now he's dicking around with something else, which is taking valuable time away from the special project! Come on, dildobrain! God!

But, back to my story. See, the reason I have to hit the snooze button so many times, is that when I get up in the morning, I always feel like--

Man. This is the most boring story I've ever heard in my life. This sucks. This article is an embarrassment. I used to be able to whip out winners once a day, stuff that would split your sides and knock you on your ass. Now? Snooze button stories. What is the problem here? I want to whip out a winner, but I can't!

What do the kids like to read? Oh, oh. You know what the kids like? Features! I'll make up a new feature! Now, what sort of feature should it be? Feature... Feature...

Ah! I got it!

I am proud, now, to present to you the latest feature on PWC, which is:

I think we all know that uncomfortable feeling we get when, after having been approached by a stripper for a lap dance, we agree, and hop on over to the couch, only to find that the song that's on now is only halfway done, and the dance won't get started until the start of the next song, so we have to sit there with the stripper for upwards of two minutes and engage in brain-vaporizingly dull smalltalk. But this will never be a problem for you ever again, now that you're armed with:

We'll do this feature in the time-tested "Right/Wrong" format which has enriched so many features before it with its simplicity, clarity, and relatively easy-to-type HTML. So now, without further ado, here is:

Right: "So, how long have you worked here?"
Wrong: "Can I touch anything?"

Right: "This is a really nice club."
Wrong: "You're as pretty as mom!"

Right: "How long are you here for tonight?"
Wrong: "HEY GUYS!! CHECK IT OUT!! WOOOOOOO!!!"

Right: "What are the rates for the Champagne Room?"
Wrong: "They don't allow niggers in here, do they?"

Right: "You're the prettiest dancer I've seen here all night!"
Wrong: "I'll be thinking of you when I drop my load in the shower tomorrow morning."

Right: "Man, this place is rough on your wallet. Heh."
Wrong: "[ drool ]"

Right: "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
Wrong: "Whoa, you got some meat on ya!"

Right: "How many girls are working tonight?"
Wrong: "I'm having a lot of fun now, but I know that when I leave here in an hour or so, and I've dropped over $300 on drinks and dances, I am going to face a torrent of self-loathing, shame, and embarrassment the magnitude of which is absolutely inconceivable to your X-ridden shrivelled little brain. You fucking whore."

Right: "Kinda slow in here tonight, isn't it?"
Wrong: "How much for a face dance?"

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go whip out a winner.