The Douche Chronicles
The Sweet Release of Death

I'm Kind of a Big Thing... In My Mind: The 2nd Encore

08/23/2010 11:15 AM


Its like a guest that just won’t leave. Just when you thought the house lights were about to come up, The Rocker took in a big drag off the oxygen tank backstage and then slithered back into the spotlight for yet another encore number. The Rocker reached down deep on this, his possible last number, and unleashed a banshee wail of a tune from his latest album “Essence of Taint” and truly wowed the crowd with his Massengill splendor. The clock was striking quarter-to-three when The Rocker breezed into the Art Bunker and sashayed his way to the edge of my cubicle. Fearing that with his approach my cubicle half-wall was going to be humped like Hendrix to a Marshall stack, I recoiled away from The Rocker and his “anxious” hips. As if the anxious hips of The Rocker weren’t troubling enough, The Rocker was sporting his trademark mirrored aviator shades. Editors note: I work in the Art Bunker and other than a 12-watt desk lamp here and there, the room is fucking dark. It’s part of our color management protocol, so again, its fucking dark.

The Rocker had the aviators slightly slid down his beak just enough to peer over the top as to avoid having to remove them and fucking up his feng shui of arrogant doucheness. His eyes rolled to the left as if to see if anyone was looking to eavesdrop on what he was about to say, then returned focus back onto yours truly. As I’m watching him waiting for the monotone ramble to spew forth, I became filled with just a nasty bit of Fuckhollywooditus.What is Fuckhollywooditus? It’s an overwhelming feeling of disdain for posers and plastic oxygen thieves that have nothing but contempt for brains and common decency. But hey! If they all look fabulous, all is goody-goody gumdrops.

Where some folks weaken me to be overcome by a psychotic Mel Gibson, The Rocker morphs me into Charles Grodin upon sight. My answers are short. My tone is low and full of complete and utter disgust. My look is that of a whimsical contempt. The Rocker is completely oblivious to my metamorphosis and begins rambling on about how his client is coming in to pick up their item, and, he will be out on a “meeting.” Again with the “meeting” at 3pm…how convenient. It is at this point although morphed into Charles Grodin on the outside, I snap into Mad Mel on the inside and dump The Rocker with the other wastes of space on my imaginary deserted island of Disdain & Sorrow with yours truly acting as a sadistic Mr. Rourke. Sadly as of late I became aware that my imaginary island, my Hollywood/Poser dumping ground if you will, was growing exponentially and was becoming hard to manage.

To alleviate this problem, I now flood my imaginary island every hour or so to make room for the next batch of societal douchebags I plop down upon its rocky shores. As I sat like a fat, chocolate eating cherub sitting on a cloud looking down upon my creation, The Rocker loudly cleared his throat snapping me out of island day dream and back to the matter at hand: he was leaving and needed me to handle his customer while he was out. What’s new? “Yeah, I got it.” I hissed back at him. The Rocker turned and made his exit only to stop and spin back to add, “ Oh, by the way… e-mail The Comets and ask them if their art is approved.” This of course made my toes curl in anger, knuckles cracking aloud like 9mm gunfire. I bit down and mustered a dry smile and said “sure thing.” Then The Rocker faded out the door and off into the 3 o’clock hour, his day complete. Now although The Rocker had left and was out of sight, I could still see him: standing on the shores of my island amongst the crowd of Kardashians, Lohans, Spears, The cast of High School Musical… I’m pretty sure I heard him ask Paris Hilton “ is this heaven?” No silly! She squeaked. “ It’s paradise! Look at all the fabulously fabulous people are here! Want to see my bald, diseased beaver? I like your shades! They’re hot!” She cackled.
With this banter, a warm smile spread across my face as I grabbed a See’s Carmel Nut Cluster and looked down on my island full of celebutantes and assholes. “Its 3o’clock fuckers! High tide is a comin’!” I boomed down from my puffy cloud above, thus giving the swaggering narcissists below ample warning of the fast approaching Wave of Cleanse.

I giggle myself back to reality and to the task at hand of dealing with The Rocker’s clients. But before I play Molly Maid to the sloppy salesman, I pop open the web browser on my computer and cruise Craigslist. Somebody’s got to be selling an island for cheap…


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I'm Kind of a Big Thing... In My Mind: The Encore

08/17/2010 11:13 AM


Just like any bombastic rock concert, it ain’t over until the sweat-drenched, spandex laden superstar takes the stage for one final number, squeals like Clay Aiken at his proctologist, and yelps “GOOD NIGHT CLEVELAND! Well The Rocker true to form, stuck to the Schlock Rock Guidebook and came back onto the Corporate Land stage and “Gave us all he’s got.” It’s a wonder the ladies in the office managed to keep their panties on let alone keep them dry, it was that great of a performance.

Now when The Rocker enters a room and begins to spew forth his special brand of Schlock Rock sales babble, the ladies may find it as appealing as a pap smear, but it sends me into an apocalyptic wasteland of thought of setting about bad deeds upon his body. His voice is about as appealing as a burnt hair-scented cologne. Think Ben Stein after 3 packs of cigarettes. It’s a monotone rambling of run-on sentences that seem to go on for days. It’s enough to make you cry like Jan Brady.

So what brought about the command performance from The Rocker you ask? Another high profile sports team, that’s what. Not only were we doomed for failure with the info provided by The Rocker, the engineering department (Space Chimp Flunkies) felt the need to contribute their special brand of stupidity to the mix. With The Rocker and Engineering combined, it became in the immortal words of Conan O’Brien: “The Mt. Rushmore of Incompetence” Oh Coco… I await your triumphant return. Apparently The Rocker, and The Space Chimp Flunkies provided wrong dimensions in another glorious display of bi-polar craftsmanship. The punch line being two different sets of dimensions for the Fabrication and, Graphics shops to sort through. This of course set into motion a skip fest into Sucksville of Wizard of Oz proportion.

Once the Fabrication Shop discovered the error, a rather rambunctious posse of managers and shop leads set about figuring a solution and, ensuring the capture of the guilty party, ending with their demise in The Supply Closet of Deliberate Retribution. As if the workday wasn’t bad enough without this clusterfuck, to compound the tingling sensation and blurred vision this job was already giving us, another player decided to skate onto the ice and enter the fracas to assure that all on the Fix It Posse will have extremely high blood pressure in deciphering his ways and means. Enter Speed Walker: The Project Manager. Speed Walker’s contribution was akin to asking a Parkinson’s-stricken Stevie Wonder to land a jumbo jet… on an aircraft carrier by “feel”

Assigning Speed Walker to project manage let alone oversee the damn thing, ensured that the project’s guidance systems were locked on for a collision course with the Iceberg of Failure. The Rocker meanwhile, seeing his precious job flounder by his own hand, began whining like a four-year-old with a poopy diaper. That’s a tune I could do without. With his Pampers choked full of pooh, The Rocker got behind the wheel of the Blame Bus and rolled through Corporate Land on a belligerent rampage of Whoa is me. The performance was highly annoying yet highly entertaining at the same time. Kinda like when Ashlee Simpson ate shit on Saturday Night Live. Definitely a “Oh no you didn’t/ what a stupid douche” moment.

Luckily for those of us that were feverishly working at righting the ship and sailing away from the Atoll of Failure, The Rocker keeping true to his rigorous work schedule of 11am to 3 pm, left Corporate Land for an important “Meeting” The Rocker angrily strutted his way out of Corporate Land, jumping into his beloved Jag and sped off in true David Coverdale fashion. But that was not the last of The Rocker. For he and his iPhone are one and they had something to say before the day was through.

As the Fix-It Posse set about completing the project and thankful for The Rocker’s removing himself from the building, a false sense of calm washed over the production floor. The calm was soon broken by The Rocker chiming in from afar: “ …This must be completed and delivered on time as the client is so far, not happy with your performance. Lets see that this gets done pronto! – Sent by iPhone.” Now those of us on the Fix-It Posse got a real good chuckle on that one as we had removed The Rocker from the recovery equation two hours previous to receiving this “Fix it or else” nugget of douchebuggery.

We simply dismissed it as yet another 2-bit number culled from the Asshole Songbook The Rocker performs from. So as a token of appreciation, I sauntered back to my desk and sat down at my keyboard and wrote a few bars of musical response back to The Rocker. A little Devil-Horned salute if you will to The Rocker’s fabulous performance: “Dear Rocker, Thank you for your charismatic leadership through this tough, trying times. I truly don’t know how I have survived this long without it. –Sent by iPhone. Not really. Sent from my computer here at work, where things get done, not hiding out at Starbucks. Enjoy your “meeting” kisses, The Fix-It Posse.” Now that’s a tune that will have all kids stomp the yard.

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I'm Kind of a Big Thing... In My Mind

08/10/2010 08:59 PM


One way to look at the daily work grind is that of a test. A test that determines just how much crap one person can take from the collection of two-legged science projects the Big Boss has decided to collect for workplace follies. But what really turns Mr. Hand into Mr. Fist is that within this group, there is the annoying presence of The One. As in the one with the over inflated ego. Corporate Land is not immune to this type of villain, there are some egos floating about but one in particular sticks out like a clump of veggies on Kirstie Alley’s dinner plate. Yes, its always raining champagne and every event is a red-roped party in his honor. Yes, Corporate Land is blessed every day with the presence of The Rocker.

What’s funny about The Rocker is that the Ego doesn’t just click on once he crosses the threshold of the Corporate Land front door. No way Jose! I’ve had the distinct pleasure of witnessing The Rocker on his drive into work and what a sight it is! Its like observing a rolling checklist of what not to buy, what not to wear, and how not to carry yourself unless of course you are striving for the tip-top position of Doucheland. Gaudy Jaguar. Check. Wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses (on a dark cloudy day no less) Check. Driving like you are David Lee Roth in the Panama video. Check. Now I’m not knocking Diamond Dave at all, I just reckon that anyone encroaching on his turf should be digitized and injected into an Air Supply video for their style crime. There is only one David Lee Roth! But I digress.

Now The Rocker isn’t that bad of a guy, he is a fellow musician and a fellow artist but that is where the similarities end. When The Rocker scores a rather large sale, he becomes stricken by the darndest case of tunnel vision I’ve ever seen. The big job becomes all encompassing of his time and attention and those of us handling his smaller jobs are left to care for his abandon babies not unlike a grandparent of a crack whore. If the orders could talk it probably be along these lines: “ PaPa, where’s Rocker Daddy? Well Nippsy, Rocker Daddy is probably in an abandoned house blowing somebody for a piece of rock.” Its moments like these that tug at the heartstrings with the knowledge of the damage done to a hopeless work order. The cards were stacked against it… It is with the abandonment of smaller clients by the Rocker that frustration sets in. It produces a by-product of forgetfulness and loathing that makes Paris Hilton look like a compassionate Unicef aid worker.

It is the foster parents of The Rocker’s work orders that deal with the arrogance and forgetfulness that brings about toxic levels of disdain. E-mails are sent to the Rocker for details that were simply left out by lack of caring. It is the response from The Rocker that can awaken the foster parent’s inner Mel Gibson. “I didn’t get your e-mail. Are you sure you sent it? “ The Rocker is the master of spinning a yarn of plausible deniability– the sad thing being it is only for his benefit, cause we all know he is full of shit. The Rocker on a good day will be somewhat responsive, stopping by to toot-toot his horn of his latest high-dollar sales exploits, and how many more notches upward that put him within reach of the Big Brass Ring. Oh my precious!



Every now and then the Office Gods set in motion an action that I like to call “The Equalizer” or as my dad used to call it “The Humbler”. For example: The Rocker sealed a deal with a large sports team that required a set of banners being unfurled at specific times for each specific banner during a major event. The Rocker busted everyone’s balls involved in the project making sure everyone knows their specific duty. Basically, acting as the stage boss from hell. But hey! What could go wrong for he is The Rocker! The Performer Supreme! Well… The Rocker didn’t fully inspect his work and in front of 60 thousand fans, proceeded to unfurl the mess at the wrong time much to the four-lettered-word screaming horror of his client. Ah the Humbler! That little boo-boo cost us a client but it also silenced The Rocker and sent him underground for an endless helping of crow, shoe foot, taint… for a good month or so. But the audience is fickle and once the stage lights lit up and led him out of the basement, The Rocker grabbed his Golden Scepter Baby Rattle and sprung back onto the Corporate Land stage. Still singing the same tune while prancing about the stage. Now as deafening as The Rocker’s arrogant toot-toot horn blowing is, I tolerate it as best I can for I know that, eventually, The Humbler is a comin’ and I live for that fat, juicy sour note. The audience is listening indeed.

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High School,Vampires & The San Juan Mafia

06/08/2010 05:09 PM


There’s a saying that is entwined in the movie Jerry Maguire, and its not that lame “Show me the money!” No, it’s a saying that should be etched into brass, mounted on oak and hung on the wall in every business across this great land; except Corporate Land. The saying? Its that jewel of perfection that rolled out of Jay Mohr’s pretty little mouth: “ its not show friends, its show business.” Nepotism runs rampant here and lets not even get into the kink of the Good Old’ Boy Club. If you are not in the right clique, well, you are just not that cool. The only thing missing from this hellhole of degradation is an uppity squad of empty-headed cheerleaders.

High school was aggravating and lame the first time, and there are days that feel as if I have stepped through the Portal of Absolute Shallowness and been delivered to first period biology class. Fuck me if that ain’t a way to start the day. The Execs have their own little sinister circle they run in that’s a given (gerbil sacrifices in the woods at lunch, weekly spanking parties; usually dressed in full Nazi regalia.) There are The Miserables– those that can barely stand the thought of getting out of bed let alone entertain the idea of coming into work they hate it so much– a group that as of late has grown exponentially in size (I’m man enough to admit that I have joined their ranks.) There are the Lifers and the Cruisers and lest we forget, those adorable life coaches: The Temps.

But there is a group that is firmly entrenched into the fiber of Corporate Land so slippery and beguiling, they make the evilest of Klingons look like milquetoast neighbors of Ward and June Cleaver. Who are they you ask? They are not a movement as much as they are a force for they are: The San Juan Mafia. Like a pack of bean sprout-fueled distempered teacup poodles, they pump out more passive-aggressive behavior than McDonald’s does quarter-pounders. Yep. High school. The SJM are like that backstabbing annoying twat Tiffany from your Home Ec class: “Did you see Susan? Oh. My. God! What a stupid skank! She is sooo slutty!” Enter Susan: “oh hi Susan! Can you go to the mall with me tonight? I want to get a top like yours… its bitchin!”

The San Juan Mafia – an evil force spawned from the blood spilled from their sacrificial retarded cocker spaniel, an evil exported from the quaint, sleepy chain of islands off the northern coast of Washington state. Think hillbilly Twilight and you’ll be cooking with grease. The San Juan Mafia is comprised of a circle of close friends that grew up together on the islands and one by one, have been brought aboard the Good Ship Lollipop, further darkening its already sinister heart. Their motto: “Covet that that is of our own and fuck the rest,” is stitched into the backs of their underwear, inked in the blood of a newt and stitched with hair of a Cabbage Patch Kid. Their evil power is kept in the form of a pig’s ear, placed in a pickle jar with the souls of a thousand houseflies. The jar rests in the protective clutches of a mummified circus clown entombed in an abandoned outhouse, deep in the woods of Orcas Island.

Just as silver bullets stop werewolves and wooden stakes halt vampires, it has been said that a necklace of soiled urinal cakes placed around the neck of an SJM soldier, will incapacitate them for a brief moment– this gives you time to inject the Vial of Proper Business Ethics into their rhino-tough hide. The San Juan Mafia never go quietly when they are dispatched– a sight of arms flailing, explosive bouts of vomiting maple syrup and candy corn, followed by guttural renditions of Broadway show tunes. So as teenage vampires run amok in the woods of Port Angeles, feasting on the air headed minds of prom queens, The San Juan Mafia roam between the four, cold, life-sucking walls of Corporate Land. I wonder if Costco sells urinal cakes in bulk? I have a lot of necklaces to make.

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The Cantankerous Curmudgeons Sensible Shoes

06/01/2010 11:50 AM


“Yeah…what do you want?” His words swaggered out of his mouth with such disdain for those that dare approach him. “I was checking to see what printer was available,” I fired back. “I don’t know, pick one… I just work here.” Soothing words coming from a floor manager. And yet day in and day out that is how Mr. Happy Manager greets you. The level of loathing from said manager depends upon the stress level and, the depth of the workweek he is wallowing in.

He has been known to swoop into the prepress cubicles and perch on the edge like a gargoyle, brow beating you… expecting that his charms will unleash an unknown power boost in PhotoShop file saving efficiency. God forbid you make him wait. If you’re lucky, you just get the brow beating. But some have been less fortunate, and have experienced what I like to call The Trifecta of Contempt: 1. The Eye Roll of Disdain 2.The Brow Beating of Slow File saving 3. The Hairball Throat-Clear of Impatience.
Victims of the Trifecta, feel as if they have aged a year from just a few moments of the Curmudgeons tactics.

Rumors swirled and theories were tossed about, to try and expose the source of the Curmudgeons crankiness. One theory that was number one on the charts for a week was the “Thorn in the paw “ theory. A bunion maybe, but no thorn. This theory was discarded once it was brought to light that the Curmudgeon was sporting a rather cozy pair of shoes. The 2nd was the “Panties in a bunch” theory. This one was quickly taken off of the table due to the ladies of the office taking great offense and also, that nobody–and I mean nobody–had any desire to find out if the Curmudgeon was sporting boxers or briefs, let alone anything freaky that may lead to the discoverer poking their eyes out with knitting needles.

The last theory was the “Jack in the Box” theory. It seems Jack is the daily burger of choice for the Curmudgeon. Not exactly the diet of champions, but it explains the gut and the abundant amount of flop sweat. This finding proved disgusting but did not pinpoint the exact cause of his cantankerous zeal. All theories were abandoned in favor of going to Curmudgeons stomping grounds and probing those that worked under him for answers.

What was gleamed from the time on the floor was this: It was the home of the backhanded compliment, a burger-fueled environment of general disdain and misery. A flop-sweating dance of “where did I go wrong in life?” to the beat of regret. The crew on the floor was about as upbeat as a Polanski film, marching under a banner of a smiley face with a bullet between the eyes. Not the most inspiring of environs. It was concluded that the Curmudgeon was a master of misery, with the people skills along the lines of a live hand grenade, and was just plain miserable. But hey, at least he has some comfortable shoes.


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The Secret Plot of Junior & The Golden Boy

05/26/2010 12:53 PM


Two glasses. That’s what it took to “kill the pain” or “take the edge off” (insert favorite alcoholic excuse here) to rid myself of the filth of the douche maneuvers that were carried out on Monday at Corporate Land. I wasn’t drinking to forget, oh no way Jose. I was drinking to calm myself down so I could write this post for you all. I figure if I keep this up, I’ll be asking for donations from you to help pay for my impending liver transplant. What sent me to the saving graces of my beloved Merlot? A douche maneuver so sleazy, it would make Massengill stand up and take notice. You see, there’s a co-worker of mine, a sassy little spitfire that sits outside my darkened hovel of despair, she handles a minutia of paperwork for one of our large corporate clients. It’s a thankless, grueling and on more days that I’d like to admit, a suicidal thought-inducing exercise of futility. Like I mentioned previously, That Girl is a spitfire. And with that being said, she calls it like she sees it. She suffers no fools and God bless her for it!

Well, a few months ago, a son of one of Corporate Lands execs, came into the cold, evil fold. Junior was placed right next to That Girl to be teamed up on the corporate account, and there lay the failure of the US collegiate educational system. Apparently Junior wasn’t taught how to deal with assertive women, instead, he relied heavily on the patented frat house response of “fucking bitch!” when let down or cornered by a dominant female. To say that sparks flew and love was in the air when these two collaborated was akin to saying that Nancy Kerrigan really digs Tonya Harding. Oh, don’t get me wrong; there was plenty of emotion flowing in the 16-square foot Cage of Cubicle Disdain. One emotion that was as constant as a Lady Gaga wardrobe change was desire. The desire pent up in That Girl to plunge a dull ruler into Junior’s neck repeatedly in a Seattle’s Best Coffee fueled murder spasm.

Eventually Junior couldn’t handle That Girl’s logic anymore and requested a sitting with The Golden Boy to go over his frustrations with That Girl. Golden Boy (One of Douchedom’s elite soldiers) was all ears for Junior and set about planning and scheming for Operation Coddle. Their mission: replace That Girl. Covert interviews were conducted in a remote meeting room deep in the bowels of Corporate Land, unbeknownst to That Girl. As secret and sleazy as these meetings were, they were not secret enough, and That Girl’s front-office operatives caught a whiff of the douchey exploits of Junior and the Golden Boy.

Now as the partners-in-douche were going about their evil, passive aggressive ways, That Girl was also planning and scheming her own devilish mission. Her motive was pure. Its deliverance, liberating. That Girl was securing financial backing for Operation Get The Fuck Out of Here! Luckily, the Gods of High Finance and Higher Learning had granted her a green light to her mission just as her front operatives picked up the scent of douchyness. She will beat them to the punch. Come Monday, That Girl delivered her two-sentence “fuck you I’m out of here, sucks to be you.” resignation letter, exposing the douchy exploits of Massengill’s finest backstabbing sleazoids.

A smile now resides where a frown once was. The tears have dried and the spring has returned to her step. I’ll miss That Girl…yes indeed. Maybe she’ll send me racy and totally inappropriate photos of her having fun in Collegeville. One can hope. And what of Golden Boy and Junior? Their homoerotic frolicking continues on, poisoning the office with their bitter vinegar stench. Character… you either have it or you don’t. One thing is for certain, its not made by Massengill.

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