Yesterday’s incident of grand theft blog preempted what was supposed to be the first update on my volleyball season. After losing our first match 3-0 (those Asians are pesky), we rebounded this time to simply demolish the team we were playing against, winning all three matches by at least 10 points to even up our record at 3–3.
And it wasn’t just any old team we beat either. It was THE BEST TEAM IN THE LEAGUE. I’m kidding, they’re actually the worst. They’re the bad news bears with no turnaround on the horizon. Normally I would feel bad about rendering such a vicious beat down on such a lowly team. I remember playing hockey in college and feeling that way sometimes when my team – who was pretty dominant, winning two league championships and sending two players to the NHL – beat the weaker teams by scores like 13-2. I’ve been on the other side of that score playing Madden with much more experienced friends, and at an official sporting event you can’t get up off the couch, slam your controller down and chuck a beer on your opponent, so it makes it a little harder to handle.
This time though the opponent was a team comprised of employees from a popular New York City real estate company, one that has made it a tradition to fuck me over. Every time I needed an apartment I eventually crossed paths with this company. And every single time they showed me apartments that were out of my price range, missed appointments and reiterated the point that “the apartment I wanted didn’t exist in my price range” at which point I would go somewhere else and find the apartment I wanted in my price range.
That’s why it was with great pleasure that I served 24 (24!) straight winning points en route to the key victories that bring us back to .500. I haven’t served that well since ’02, when I worked as a “butler” at Jewish weddings to make some extra cash in college. By the end of the final match, I was even trying to serve it easy because my teammates were getting bored standing by watching. After the game, I issued the following statement:
“I approached this match the same way I approached all matches, just went out there and tried to play hard and get the W. Every game is equally important. I’m just glad we beat these assholes like Kenyans in a footrace.”
Last night, in my ongoing efforts at being named People magazine’s Humanitarian of the Year and The Girlfriend’s ongoing efforts at replacing every single thing in her apartment, I put together this new dresser she bought for her bedroom.
The only problem was that it came in about 25 pieces with approximately 100 screws. And The Girlfriend presented me with these tools, more fit for picking a piece of lettuce out of your teeth than for turning a screw:
Five hours later, me and the screwdriver had become like close friends who weathered a war together. As I turned the final screws and shavings of metal came off the screwdriver tip I gently coaxed it, “Come on buddy, just a few more. I know you can do it.” I affectionately named him “Prison Shank” and retired him from duty this morning. At this point, he couldn’t even screw Paris Hilton. (Oh!)
Great email forwarded to me by reader Jennifer. Apparently today is “Slap Your Irritating Co-Worker Day.” The rules are as follows:
– You can only slap one person per hour - no more.
– You can slap the same person again if they irritate you again in the same day.
– You are allowed to hold someone down as other co-workers take their turns slapping the irritant.
– No weapons are allowed...other than going upside somebody's head with a stapler or a hole-puncher.
– If questioned by a supervisor [or police, if the supervisor is the irritant], you are allowed to LIE, LIE, LIE!
This sounds like the perfect holiday, although holding someone down doesn’t seem fair unless they’re making more money than you. However, I’m faced with two problems:
1. The person I would love to slap isn’t in the office today, and
2. The person I’d love to slap is an elderly woman.
Now, I’ve never really believed in that “don’t hit girls” adage. They’re people, and I treat all people equal. My only caveat is “if you’re going to slap a girl, you may as well punch a girl.” And if I unloaded on Crazy June I’m afraid it would certainly end in my lying to the police as the coroner removes her body from the break room. And, as an avid CSI fan, I know that no matter how good a liar I am I CAN’T HIDE FROM THE EVIDENCE!
What about a “Put Toner In Your Irritating Co-Worker’s Coffee Day?” That seems easier to disguise as an accident.