The Sweet Release of Death

The Boomtown Rants

Hey...Where Ya Been?

01/27/2011 11:26 AM

I feel as if I should be on the back of a milk carton it’s been so long since my last post. Nothing irks me more than an expansive amount of time between blog posts, but I have a good reason for my yet again lengthy absence from TSROD: Overwhelmed with disgust. Usually I simply pass the workday let downs of humanity onto you, my loyal readers, cleansing my soul for yet another treacherous day at the Corporate Land Amusement Center. Most of you are waiting for The Maiden Vs. The Rocker & Mamma’s Boy Pt.2, while some just want to know “ Dude, WTF?” There’s an old saying that gets uncorked from time to time when some shit is about to go down, the old “mother nature’s a bitch and she’s in heat.” Well Corporate Land has been in heat like Octomom at Charlie Sheen’s house. I’d laugh if I was joking but I’m not. The amount of sleaze ball, backstabbing, de-humanizing bullshit they have been churning out since the middle of October, makes the Bush Administration look like a watered down episode of Father Knows Best.

So in the coming days look for the much anticipated conclusion to The Maiden Vs. The Rocker & Mamma’s Boy and a shocking expose on my uncovering of a sinister plot to kill Betty White. Also, new for 2011 The Friday Moment of Zen will be spruced up a bit starting with the sultry Daisy Lowe. Oh yes my dear readers, I’m back!

Tags: dick cheney, Bush,, Betty white

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Where's The Beef Been?

08/03/2010 02:28 PM

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. But if you are in a self induced absence, it can turn into a precarious situation of a mere absence turning into a disappearance along the lines of Jimmy Hoffa. So after a way too long break from all things blog, I’m here to say that I’m back and much to my relief, not buried under slabs of concrete in the end zone of Giants Stadium. So what gives? Why was I away so long? Did I go someplace tropical again? Sadly, no. No Hawaiian breezes this time, just dreary work life seeping into my writing time. But enough of my lame excuses! A lot has transpired at Corporate land in past few weeks and I plan on delivering the goods the next few days to get you all caught up on over inflated egos in Sales, the addition of way too many managers as of late… Octomom would be so proud of the additional oxygen thieves that now roam the passive aggressive halls of Corporate Land. Got a problem? Add a manager to the staff! I will be revamping the site a bit with additions and links and all kinds of bells and whistles that the kids love, pictures of cubicle hazing? Send them my way and I’ll post’em in the new gallery. So, The pen is full of ink, I’m stocked up on Staples brand note pads and I’m brimming with new tales of Corporate frivolity. Thanks for hanging in there to those that have stuck around!
Stay tuned.

TSROD

Tags: octomom, Jimmy Hoffa, New York Giants, Giants Stadium

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Techno Babble

07/14/2010 02:25 PM

A few years ago, man stopped dragging his knuckles, smashed some berries and scrawled on a cave wall a story of the day’s events to those hunkered in the cave with him. It would be simple and to the point: left cave. Ran for my life from the big beast. Killed beast. Return to cave and family. The end. It’s amazing what a few years can do to a species and its environs. Today mankind, womankind (insert your group here as to not offend any particular sect of crybabies) has become such a collection of self absorbed oxygen thieves that the “normal” people can’t wait for Burt Rattan to get us off this crazy rock.

Technology is good when used by experienced and trustworthy folk. When placed into the hands of the common people…well, stand back and let the games begin! Just as the first Model A’s rolled off of Henry Ford’s assembly line, not everyone was able to drive one. Hell, they just got used to their pony. How they gonna get used to something they can’t whip and feed oats to? Well in the immortal words of Darwin, Evolution my dear Watson! Yes kids. Evolution. It’s this crazy concept that the Republicans try to keep locked up in the Tomb of The Narrow Minded. I don’t mean to scare you, but yes we adapt to our surroundings in order to survive. Yes the automobile was a bit scary at first, quite different from the family horse and not as forgiving. I mean uncle Jasper never had to worry about wrapping the horse around the local oak tree after a night at the local saloon. Henry’s blue steel and alcohol was a first class ticket to a closed casket. Oak tree 1 – Uncle Jasper 0. Evolution does not happen overnight no matter how much Madonna tries to teach your kids otherwise. It’s a slow process. Painfully slow. It can become cumbersome when spurts of de-evolving sprout up; Remember Disco? The Flow Bee?

The one benefit of history is the ability to look back and spot the glory and the gory of our illustrious past. The glory moments are there like a favorite relative. The gory stick out like Paris Hilton in an MIT quantum physics class. We can only hope that twenty years from now we are still evolving for the better and not skating around signing YMCA while sporting a Bill Gates hairdo. I’m putting Burt on my Harry and David Christmas list just in case. I hear Mars has a helluva view.

Tags: Burt Ratan, Caveman, darwin, Henry Ford

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How Our FTP Cured My Writers Block

07/07/2010 06:43 PM

Just when I thought writers block had cast its evil spell upon me, a pair of fools entered from stage right and rekindled the fire of the TSROD Pen of Retribution.
Not only has the pen sparked back to life, it has channeled The Long Distance Dedication Powers of Casey Kasem. This post is dedicated to the two technologically challenged knuckleheaded twats in LA that made 2 of my days last week a living hell.
We here at Corporate Land have many clients and with that ever expanding list of clientele, comes the demand for easy accessibility for file transfer to our FTP server. Since the Great Break-in of April, 2010, we have added a more secure, but also more user friendly FTP interface (Rumpus anyone?)

As part of my enslavement here at Corporate Land, not only am I in charge of keeping the MACS in tip-top shape, I’m also the FTP guru. And there lay my tragedy. If anything goes wrong, I’m the guy that gets the call. I like to refer to it as “my little pain in the ass” Corporate Land calls it “added value” during my performance review (the only thing that is not added is pay.) Wednesday’s little ditty started with a call from our front desk: “Bob, you got a call. Some gal has a problem logging onto our FTP.” I chirp back “OK!” but deep down inside I’m groaning as if I’m gonna take a call from Joy Behar. It’s a sad tale really, the plight of the technologically challenged. It can infect both male and female, as it knows no boundaries and does not discriminate against race, color or creed. If you can mumble “oops” or better yet “uh oh”, you’re just as fair game as the dude in engineering that can figure the mass of unused space under the front steps, but can’t seem to figure out the microwave.

On the other end of the phone was a damsel in distress (the damsel part of her calling was soon lost as I quickly realized she was a total fucking idiot) “yeah, I’m trying to log on to your FTP but it won’t even load. It’s just taking me to your homepage.” She moaned. I went through my tech support checklist with her step by step, holding her hand the whole way to no avail. Failure was the reward for our journey together. It’s at this point that The Damsel’s demeanor turned rather sour. “Its not working. What do you suggest?” Her words cutting like a fresh razor. “Well, lets go through this one more time just to make sure there are no typos and such, cause I don’t see any problems on my end.” I explained calmly. A heavy sigh blew into the phone as if a drug-sniffing Beagle was on the other end. “Maybe I should get my IT guy to figure out your FTP.” Her words forcing themselves through her gritted, impatient teeth. “What a peach you are!” I thought to myself.

As I exhausted all of my ideas onto The Damsel, she surrendered to the idea of having her people figure it out. Thank you. Its like one of those fucking losers that orders a hot coffee from McDonalds with the cup clearly marked “HOT COFFEE” and they spill it on themselves and then sue McDonald’s. Idiots. The remaining 2 hours of day 1 of the FTP Saga were peppered with e-mails from The Damsel saying that she still had no access and that our server was still not working. Surprisingly, with the perceived failure of our FTP, 6 other clients were miraculously accessing and uploading files to our crippled server. Hmm… In each of my e-mails back to The Damsel, I gave her an option to upload to my .MAC account and my Box.net account, both reliable services to have as backup. No response from The Damsel. I left a voicemail but The Damsel did not call.

The FTP Saga Day 2: I was greeted first thing by a nasty little e-mail from The Damsel and her equally stupid counterpart The Twat. The dynamic duo of stupidity thought it wise to cc all of those involved and ramble on in one paragraph as to how Corporate Lands FTP was down and they still couldn’t access the server. As an added little flavor to their morning zinging diatribe, they specifically called me out by name and said that I was of no help, did not answer e-mails and gave them no backup plan for file delivery. In the immortal words of Marcel Marceau: “Say What!” After reading the dynamic duo’s whiny little douche narc e-mail, I had yet another Mel Gibson moment where time evaporated into nothingness and a foul-mouthed tirade reigned supreme.

A rapid-fire barrage of Fuck You! Fuck you! Fuck you! And FUCK YOU! You’re so full of fucking shit! Fuck you, you fucking stupid fucking LA fucking twats! Coupled with this Mel Gibson Hallmark moment was my possessed right hand maniacally changing from flipping the bird at my mortified computer screen, to transforming back to a jabbing index finger at the screen. This latest Mel Gibson meltdown signaled to those around me that I might be having a slight disagreement with someone. The remainder of Day 2 was spent talking to those on the Corporate Land side of things and suggesting that these two plastic idiots in LA should be pistol-whipped with green bananas. Day 2 was not unlike having a piece of coconut stuck between your teeth: highly annoying.

Day 3 brought me my redemption. Our Corporate Land salesman went up the chain of command of Damsel Land. His news for me on Day 3: “Damsel Lands firewall has been blocking all incoming and outgoing e-mail and web access sporadically for the past 3 days…” Nice. Fucking Sweet! No sooner had this info flowed from his lips, files began dropping into our FTP from The Damsel and The Twat. A little grin creped across my face with the thought of The Damsel and The Twat eating their words. The grin went to a full on smile when I opened their files and discovered images of bikini models. Yes, we are to print posters of scantly clad bikini models. The whole FTP crisis was washed away and forgotten in a wave of pink and blue Lycra and golden skin. The Damsel wasn’t so bad after all. I’ll let her FTP faux pas slide… this time.

Tags: LA, FTP, Rumpus, Casey Kasem, Mel Gibson, Bikini, Long Distance Dedication

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The Day After Sunday

02/09/2010 06:09 AM

Sounds ominous doesn’t it? Like some CGI-bloated disaster/action flick, with a voice over intro freakishly baritone and foreboding in nature. For Monday she will settle for nothing less. For it is a conglomerate of disdain, fear and loathing, with contempt thrown in on top like a tainted cherry. The weekend gets erased from the two-finger jab to the rib that is Monday. Monday is the sand in your crack after gnarly surfing wipeout. It’s the popcorn kernel skin stuck between your teeth. But that is just a few of Mondays cuddly little character flaws. Once you add in the cast of degenerates that await you at the office, well Monday just takes misery to another level like no other. The thought of Monday can curl toes in some and in others, its been known to produce vicious bouts of Sunday Night Restless Leg Syndrome. A very select few are immune to this phenomenon. Say a beach dwelling millionaire. Monday is just a blur of another tequila hangover. Nice work if you can get it. Oh and for the rest of us working stiffs, Fuck You Mr. Millionaire! Am I heavy-handed in that analysis? Maybe. But in this economy, my contempt for Mr. Big Bucks is robust.

If Monday were an actor it would be Gary Oldman. Normal looking, but intense. You just want to say your few lines with him and exit stage left as soon as possible. So why do I, and many others like me, find Monday as attractive as a centerfold of Bea Arthur? Cause Monday is like crack cocaine to the over-achievers and work-aholic suck-ups that are borderline despondent on Friday cause the work week is over, then Monday shows up and they are full of glee. Aye... You’ve seen this I know you have. Your e-mail inbox is full of redundant questions on a cornucopia of projects, the empty coffee cup cubicle drive-bys to see if you have gotten the e-mails (its 8:05 folks)
And they’re just checking... Mondays are usually chocked full of meetings too, and nothing says, “lets burn a stack of cash!” better than the word meeting. The people I mentioned previously usually call these. It’s in these meetings that any normal person is overcome with the thought of running a hot bath and dragging razor blades up and down their arms. If your lucky and don’t have to partake in these hellacious meetings, you can cruise by Mr. Coffee and get the elixir to Monday woes. And if you are really lucky, you’ve found Mr. Coffee at his savory best. He’s fresh, his tank full and piping hot. Ah, Mr. Coffee you sexy beast! The jackals of the production floor have not drained you of your goodness.

So as Mr. Coffee settles you, you can now slide down into that swiveled chariot of 8-hour manic reflection, and get caught up on all the hit weekend TV shows you could care less about. Yep, as you contemplate just exactly where did you go wrong, your cube mates drone on and on with the plot shake-ups and shockers and the shark-jumping moments of the HBO Sunday Night Lineup. Oh Monday! You onion of melancholic deliverance! Eventually work takes a front seat and by now focus is achieved ( ipod anyone?) Although you are still peppered now and then with customer calls, salesperson drive-bys and inquisitive status updates from the forgetful Project Managers. If you’re lucky and have not completely flipped out by now, Lunch has arrived and you blast out of the office like a little kid at the dentist, to escape the crushing abyss that is Monday. As you contemplate not coming back, the thought coursing through your brain like fire as you nibble your turkey and havarti sandwich, Tuesday plants a seed of hope in your brain and a feeling of surviving the next four hours of dreary Monday. Sweet Tuesday, you’re the hot cousin of that sociopath Monday. So Monday, you just keep on dishing it out. And I’ll keep fighting you. At least until I make a million and retire... then you’ll just be another Saturday to me.

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