"I'm late I'm late I'm late!"
"What's late?"
"Everything is late. Articles. My period. Mr. Chow's Chinese Delivery. Reports. Invoices. Everything!"
"Have the clients noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"The late stuff."
"They'll notice soon enough. I'm just that far behind."
"Here's what I do: I make a list. You can tackle each item on the list, one at a time. Cross off each item as you finish it. Put appointments on a calendar. Put it all on the computer. It'll help keep you on track. It helps me a lot."
"Shut up."
"Why?"
"Because I know how to keep organized. I could teach you how to keep organized. I could create a school dedicated to nothing but helping people keep organized. I've got enough lists to fill a shopping cart. A shopping cart full of things...on lists. Shut up about lists."
"Okay. So I'll get back to work again.
"Good."
A long pause.
"So your period is late?"
# # #
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
Very Funny...Somewhat Disturbing
We've recently had our third known reader (after my wife and friend Steve) ... since this blog was founded with guiding principles that emphasize highly personalized customer service, we just wanted to say: Hi, Brian! Thanks for Visiting!
Even better, Brian offers the first known review of what we at headquarters like to call MCID... without his permission, I will repeat it here... "Very funny! Extremely. Somewhat disturbing on occasion, but extremely funny."
That about covers it!
Let the integrated multi-channel cross-media marketing campaign commence.
Even better, Brian offers the first known review of what we at headquarters like to call MCID... without his permission, I will repeat it here... "Very funny! Extremely. Somewhat disturbing on occasion, but extremely funny."
That about covers it!
Let the integrated multi-channel cross-media marketing campaign commence.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Gloom and Despair: One Minute Story #3
The man in the overalls leaned back against the rotting wood fence. The cross bar slipped out of the hole that once held it so snug and secure, and the man in the overalls stumbled and fell, his straw hat rolling like a tumbleweed till it disappeared into the tall grass.
"If it weren't for bad luck," the man spat, "I'd have no luck at all."
The man crawled into the tall grass. Later, when the police arrived, witnesses were said to have heard a creative string of curses, then nothing at all. All they found was an old pair of overalls and a bloodied straw hat.
# # #
"If it weren't for bad luck," the man spat, "I'd have no luck at all."
The man crawled into the tall grass. Later, when the police arrived, witnesses were said to have heard a creative string of curses, then nothing at all. All they found was an old pair of overalls and a bloodied straw hat.
# # #
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
One Minute Story
((I have about 2 minutes until a conference call begins...This story thus shall be written in one minute))
Rapel, he thought. I'm rapelling.
"Rapell-ent," called a voice from above. "The word is rapellent. Actually, the word is 're-pellent'. And so are you." The voice was clear, strong, rich and female, one that brought up unwanted memories of his mother's nagging and great-aunt's psychological manipulation.
"Get out of my head!" Brian shouted.
"Why? It's so comfy in here," she said sweetly. And she began to gnaw upon the rope.
"Goddammit. How dare you?" Brian was feeling rudely violated, and in more than a little physical danger. "Where are your manners?"
"You stink," she said, sweetly again.
Brian bounced faster. His hands burned despite the thick gloves he wore.
"I can change," he cried.
"I'd rather you not," she called. "Or, rather, I'd rather you not knot."
"What?" Brian said, not hearing the silent 'k'.
"No knots!" she called, laughing.
Brian hit the ground with a stomp as the full length of rope came tumbling down the cliff like an attacking anaconda.
The laughing from above...stopped.
Brian squinted up.
"You've been repelled."
Drat.
Rapel, he thought. I'm rapelling.
"Rapell-ent," called a voice from above. "The word is rapellent. Actually, the word is 're-pellent'. And so are you." The voice was clear, strong, rich and female, one that brought up unwanted memories of his mother's nagging and great-aunt's psychological manipulation.
"Get out of my head!" Brian shouted.
"Why? It's so comfy in here," she said sweetly. And she began to gnaw upon the rope.
"Goddammit. How dare you?" Brian was feeling rudely violated, and in more than a little physical danger. "Where are your manners?"
"You stink," she said, sweetly again.
Brian bounced faster. His hands burned despite the thick gloves he wore.
"I can change," he cried.
"I'd rather you not," she called. "Or, rather, I'd rather you not knot."
"What?" Brian said, not hearing the silent 'k'.
"No knots!" she called, laughing.
Brian hit the ground with a stomp as the full length of rope came tumbling down the cliff like an attacking anaconda.
The laughing from above...stopped.
Brian squinted up.
"You've been repelled."
Drat.
Friday, April 01, 2005
It Takes a Tough Man to Make a Tender Chicken
The New York Times > AP > Business > Frank Perdue, Chicken Magnate, Dies at 84
Frank Purdue, Dead. Probably my favorite advertising icon back when I lived in Rhode Island. Or was it New Jersey? There was his bust, on the TV screen -- this little bald beady-eyed fellow who did goofy stuff with chickens.
According to this obituary, he was tougher than he let on:
"In 1986, Perdue told to a presidential commission that he had twice unsuccessfully sought help from a reputed New York crime boss to put down union activities, actions he later said he regretted deeply."
Does that mean that the "reputed" crime boss refused to help, or was ineffective? We'll never know.
The other question Mr. Purdue always raised for me was whether it indeed took a tough man to raise a tender chicken. I mean, don't the chickens have it rough enough already, what with the cramped quarters, wallowing in their own chicken feces, the pecking and the incessent clucking and then the decapitation and the plucking and the rendering and the chopping and the quartering and the nuggeting and the deep frying?
I'm gonna go have me some chicken right now!
Frank Purdue, Dead. Probably my favorite advertising icon back when I lived in Rhode Island. Or was it New Jersey? There was his bust, on the TV screen -- this little bald beady-eyed fellow who did goofy stuff with chickens.
According to this obituary, he was tougher than he let on:
"In 1986, Perdue told to a presidential commission that he had twice unsuccessfully sought help from a reputed New York crime boss to put down union activities, actions he later said he regretted deeply."
Does that mean that the "reputed" crime boss refused to help, or was ineffective? We'll never know.
The other question Mr. Purdue always raised for me was whether it indeed took a tough man to raise a tender chicken. I mean, don't the chickens have it rough enough already, what with the cramped quarters, wallowing in their own chicken feces, the pecking and the incessent clucking and then the decapitation and the plucking and the rendering and the chopping and the quartering and the nuggeting and the deep frying?
I'm gonna go have me some chicken right now!
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