I rock. And roll. All day long, Sweet Suzie.

A New Direction

Ok, I think I want to go in a new direction with this blog. (This is Sarah speaking, by the by–that will be pertinant information later, so write that down. I’ll wait while you get a pen and paper…yes, a crayon and a napkin will work–just write it down. Got it? Good.) So, my main intention with the blog now will be to write the story of the cubicle dweller Finch Terwilliker (Finch the Superb) and her eventual rise to super villainy. I think I’m going to have a lot of fun writing this and it should be pretty awesome to read. Who am I kidding? Of course it’s going to be awesome– I’m writing it. From time to time, I may write something as myself, (“myself” being Sarah as you noted before) and if so, I will put it in a different category so no one is confused and no one at my work thinks I’m plotting to take things over. Also, even though Finch is fictional, you may recognise things that actually happened in my life or people I know. A helpful hint to know if something is about you: If it’s good, then it may be about you; if it’s bad, it’s not. All right. So expect the first real Finch post this Friday!

A rant.

Why does it seem like all of a sudden, the best way to name your child is to just to randomly dump consonants or vowels into a perfectly good name? I sat at work one day and came up with over one hundred different permutations of the name “Madison”. And I have probably seen at least half of those various spellings over the course of my career. It’s like people just reach into a Scrabble tile bag. “Ok child, your name is ‘Zqxugfb’.” Or they toss a handful of corn on a keyboard and let a chicken peck out a moniker. People are naming their kids like some kind of Lovecraftian deity. “Oh, those are my kids Cthulhu and Nyarlathotep. It’s ok– their name are supposed to be unpronounceable to human vocal capabilities.” I know that people want to be creative when naming their child, but if you go naming them something ridangdiculous, they’re never going to be able to find pens or pencils or coffee mugs or key chains with their name on it. They’re gonna have to go with the ones that say “They didn’t have your name”. And I’m not saying that your children will hate you for that, but I am saying that it will definitely be a deciding factor if it comes to choosing you a nursing home.

If I had an army…

Oftentimes, I amuse myself at work by planning elaborate ways of becoming a super villain and taking over the world. Many components go into making a good super villain; outfits, witty banter, an arch nemesis with which to engage in the aforementioned witty banter, an appropriately evil laugh, etc. But one very important factor is your army. It can be minions, henchmen, a hoard of mercenary barbarians, or any number of things. The most important thing is that there be droves of them. Scads, even. Perchance a plethora if you’re feeling spunky. And they must be outfitted well. A common error in super villainy is under equipping your staff. If your underlings are getting mowed down by your foes like so many blades of grass before the whirring blades of a lawn tractor, it does not bode well for you. Not only is it expensive to replace human resources, but it’s bad for morale as well. And the last thing you want is a bunch of demotivated lackeys between you and your enemy.

That’s why I have figured out the one item that must be standard issue to all my troops: An attack unicorn. Hear me out. Picture that you’re one of my foes (if you’re already one of my foes–and you know who you are–this should be easy) and that you’re making a futile attempt to storm my lair. You’ve crossed the moat, defeated the Sphinx and her riddles, and solved the Rubik’s Cube of Eternal Frustration. Nothing left to do but defeat my hoard. Should be pretty simple–but hang on–what’s this now? What’s that crunching rumble that your hear fast approaching? Why it’s my henchmen, astride their titanium-clad attack unicorns. And that crunching sound is not the hooves of their steeds–it’s the tank treads of their steeds. Crushing beneath them the bones of other fools who dared oppose me. And does that majestic, rainbow-hued horn also double as a rocket launcher? You bet your sweet bippy it does. Oh, and how observant of you to notice that my attack unicorns have laser eyes. Most people would just assume that it was magic and wonder twinkling in those crimson orbs. Well, that’s partly correct–magic and wonder and lasers. And just a smidgin of pixie dust. Can’t forget that.

As you cower there–whimpering, soiling yourself profusely and ruing the day you ever thought to cross me– you notice the crowning achievement of my army. It’s my valiant and noble steed. You weep at its beauty. It’s not merely an attack unicorn–it’s an attack Pegasus unicorn. Its glittering wings blind you. It has the standard rocket launcher horn and laser eyes and tank treads in case of land maneuvers, but it also has an additional feature. That’s right, it breathes fire as well. Give up now, puny mortal. Your pathetic endeavor has failed and I have emerged victorious. I am triumphant. All shall love me and despair. Bwah ha ha ha!

… And then I realize that I have been cackling aloud at my cubicle, eliciting concerned and wary stares from my coworkers. I must return to my drudgery for now, at least until I can create a Kickstarter account to fund my attack-a-corns project. Sigh.



Desk food

There is just nothing good to eat at my desk. Oh sure, I have popcorn, pretzels, a jar of chunky peanut butter (for dipping the aforementioned pretzels in), and like 3 different kinds of oatmeal, but I don’t have what I really want: MEAT.

Desk food is limited to sweets and salty snacks. I guess it’s because these kind of things have a relatively long shelf life. But I want more. I want it to be socially acceptable to have meat at your desk. And I’m not talking about jerky. That’s some of the nastiest, foul smelling, sorry excuse for a food product that I ever did see. It’s like someone de-joyed the meat instead of dehydrating it. So that’s right out. Same thing with tuna fish. I don’t know who ever convinced humans that eating tuna right out of the can is something that should occur, but let me tell you Brethren, you have been lied to. Tuna belongs in cassaroles, where it can be properly cooked and its funk concealed by noodles and a creamy sauce. And don’t get me started on Spam. Can you eat Spam raw? Does it require preparation? I don’t know. It’s in a can like tuna, and it’s ham. Is it like a canned lunch meat? If so, is there canned bologna? And if so, is it called Spaloney? (If not, I totally claim that product name.)

No, we need a desk meat revolution. I want to be able to open up my desk drawer and have a rotisserie chicken in there. On an actual rotisserie. A Rotiss-adex. Powered by little jars of  canned heat. I’ll be singing Jamiroqai at work: “Got canned heat in my desk tonight baby! You know this chicken is for real!”  Then I’d open another drawer and oh what is this folks? It’s a grill. It’s a grill with steaks. Everyone gather round, I’m servin’ up ribeyes offa my Steakler. Pull out the keyboard tray and bam, it’s a griddle. We are go for bacon.  Yes, desk bacon: the best kind of bacon. Ok, yes I can toss some sausage on my Griddleboard; you only had to ask.

I’m sad now because when I return to work on Monday, I will have none of these wonderful things. My meat tooth will go unsatisified. But this is a wonderful country where any sort of harebrained food preparation product can hit the market. One day, one day, the Rotiss-adex, the Griddleboard and even the Steakler shall be mine. Sigh…