“Do It For Van Gogh”


Uncomfortably Numb At Work … 

The Days Are Shorter.  Feel Longer.

“Working (Mostly) Alone Is A Horrible Relief On The Best Days.  Otherwise, It’s A Blessed Curse.  I’m Grateful For Either Scenario, But I Don’t Have To Like It.”  

I Remind Myself That This – Damned This … Is Only The Now – And, Only The Now’s Eventually End.  And, There’ll Be Another Damned This To Deal With.



I Need-ish To Be Here, Almost Want To Be Here – It’s Not Weird – It’s Less Shitty Just Easier For Me To Get Things Done At The Orifice Than It Is Working From The Grotto.

“Too Many Distractions In My Lair: There’s The Big Mirror In The Bathroom Constantly Nagging Me, Goading Me Into A Donnybrook Of A Staring Contest That Is Unwinnable.  I’m Done Mitigating Its Penchant For Pathological Lies.  Also, I Have A Cache Of Male Grooming Tools Locked & Loaded In My Holster, And I’ve Got An Itchy Trigger Hand Dying To Release It’s Hellish Fury On The Furry.  What?  And, Of Course, This Weekend Being The Big Spring Manscaping Spectacle …  So, I’ve Got That Going On.  When Have I Ever Under Shared?  That’s Plenty Weird.”

Working Doesn’t Suck.  It’s More Sanctuary Than Penance These Days.  I’m Romantic Over The Notion Of Being Active, And There’s The Necessity Of A Paycheck That Almost Makes It Worthwhile.

Of Course, I’m Not Alone.  In The Company Of A Skeleton Crew Of Executive, Senior Managers, Office Support Staff, Maintenance, And Nearly A Full Roster Of Plant Workers.  Kudos To These Individuals – Good Folks, I Like And Respect, But Occasionally Inspire Me To Write Satirical Rants To Let Loose My Special Love – For Trekking In And Keep Afloat The Machine, And Those Dishing In Remotely From Home.



Are Practiced With Utmost Commitment To The Safety And Health Of Everyone … I’ve Received An N95 Mask And Access To A Nearly Endless Supply Of Disposal Latex Gloves … 

Yes, There Has Been A Breach Or Two Of Proper Social-Distancing.  One Sneakyphuck-Dinkster Scooched In To Swipe A Printed Sheet From The Copier When I Was Trying To Scan A File.  I Gave Him Fuckeroo-Eye.   

Blame It On Bad Math – Old School Imperial System Vs. New School Metric System – Causing The Confusion.

“And, The Gaggle Of Covidiots Suffering From Mathematical Calculation Deficiencies.  Like How-To-Measure.  Clue: Six Feet Is About The Average Wingspan Of A Bipedal Homo Erectus.  Clue, Too: Two Metres Is About 6 Inches Longer Than 6 Feet.  You’ll See In The Smart-Ass Exhibit Below.”



Millennials Seem To Mind The Gap … The Gap Being Only The Difference Of 6 Inches In The Example Above … 

Love ‘Em.  Touchy.  Feely.  Standing So Close.  Creepy.  Sharing Air.  Get A Clue.

“Adorable, Tender Snowflakes Incapable Of Listening, But Must Always Be Heard Above Righteous Whispers.  Living Softly, Hearing Sweet Eph-less Whatev’s … Their Motto.”  

Donning Designer Mall Masks Stitched From Remnants Of PINK Pajama Bottoms.  Filters Upcycled From Interior Linings Of Frugly UGGs.  Nailed It.  I Want One, Tash.



About The Same Over Burdened Workload As Always …

Meaning, Just About Nothing Is Ever Completed Because Of The Latest Eureka Moment.

“Juggling Nonsense With Critical Thinking And Executing Whatever Passes For A Workable Plan To Survive In Business These Days Is The New Chaos.”  

It Seems Like I Can’t Hide In Plain Sight The Way I Once Enjoyed The Veil Of Invisibility.



Sensei’s Feigning Yoda-Blowhard Mantras:

“Wax On, Wax Off, Mr. Miyagi.” 

I’m Pretty Sure I’ve Stopped Being 9 Years-Old Decades Ago, And Can Handle Apocalyptical Shit Without Cheat Notes On What To Do While Treading In It.  As In Hint: This Big Boy Has Lived A Bit – Seen Enough To Claim He’s Almost Seen It All – With His Head Not Tucked In His Ass …

“So, Fuck On, Fuck Off, Mr. Roboto.”



On Tuesday Of This Week, The Master Plan Changed Four Times – Then I Had Lunch –  Waiting For It To Change A Couple More Times … And, A Few More After That … 

“I Tick-Tocked For A Bit, Y’Know … Played The Time Game, Trying To Guess Not The Exact Hour And Minute, But What Day It Was.  Seems Like Everyday Is Hump Day.  And, I’m Getting Dry-Humped-By-The-Hour …  Then I Under-Stimulated My Appetite Through A Bowl Of Mick’s Very Own ® ‘What’s-In-The-Pantry?’ Tri-Bean Vegan Chilli And Let’s Go With Too Chewy Brown Basmati, An Apple Or Maybe It Was Bruised Pear.”  

Until The “Make A Little Plan, Stan” Bounced Around Again For The Almost Final Time.

… And, The Ball – Hot Potato – Was Back In My Court.  Now, What?



To No One There, That Not Only Are We – The Meme Team – Incapable Of Working Outside The Box …

“We Can’t Even Find The Fucking Box!”  

The Irony Offered Here Is That We Actually Manufacture Boxes.  Very Pretty Boxes.  And, Should By Near Miracle, We Ever Find Said Box We Make, We’d Argue Whether It Has 4 Sides Or 6 Sides.  Then, We’d Come To A Consensus It Was A Box After Drafting An SOP – Absurdism Is Alive In My Patch Of Paradise – And, We’d Rename It A Cube Because Somehow That Would Matter.

“Different Dick, Same Ass – Why Am I Always Catching And Never Pitching – Welcome, To My Hump Day Everyday (Formerly Known As Groundhog Day).”  



I Haven’t Found One, But I’m Getting Close … Being A Rung Down From The Stratospheric Shelf Of Deflection, I Suffer The Same Affliction Whenever It Conveniently Serves My Purpose To Subject, Reject And Ignore.

“I’m Able To Treat My Own Managerial Ego Dysmorphia / Delusions Of Adequacy By Ignoring What Was Just Said To Me The Moment It Was Said.  Nodding My Head In Vague Agreement When I Really Don’t Have A Clue Because I Don’t Speak WTFery?  Having An Out-Of-My-Mind Experience Helps With Coping.  So Does Scratching My Cojones.  Going To Bed.  Getting A Day Drunk Glow.”



The Most Useless Abomination Of Time – Pause – Corruption Of The Mind …

I’m A Believer That Only One Thing Can Be Done Well At A Time.  And, Should Be Done.  Witness The Case Of Suck & Blow.  Because There’s Always Some Unnecessary Shittery Clusterfeltching Me Up The Wazoodle.  Like, Being Asked Tasked To Help Write An Email For The Criminally Illiterate. 

I Write A Lot Of Emails.  I Can’t Stand Emails.  I Read About 3% Of The Emails I Receive, Which Is Still Far Too Many.  I’m Trying To Curb Back To < 1%.  Also, I Almost Never Answer My Office Phone.  I No Longer Bother To Screen Calls On My Business iPhone.  I Simply Don’t Look.  Ooops-Di-Freakin’-Da.

A Self-Teachable Moment.  Inhale, Exhale.  In That Exact Order For Best Results.  Also, I’ve Learned To Breathe Through My Ass.



Yesterday, I Was Assigned A Two-Pack Of Protective Masks …  I Broke The First In Less Than 2 Minutes.  Big Melon.

I Suspect They’re Old Models And Have Passed Their Expiry Date By A Decade.

The Elastic Band – Side Straps – Snapped To Shit.  Both The Top And Bottom.

“I MacGyvered Them Together – Shot 5 Staples Into The Upper Left Side – Then Tied The Loose Elastic Ends Together.  Basically, Portuguesed It.  That’s A Compliment, Just Not To The Portuguese.”



Imagine An Effeminate Darth Vader Cross-Pollinating Vocal Chords With A Genteel, Less Maniacal Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper) In Blue Velvet:

“You Stay Alive, Baby.  Do It For Van Gogh.”

Like It Was 1986, Now.

… Where I’d Rather Be, Darlings.


Image by Heblo from Pixabay

10 thoughts on ““Do It For Van Gogh”

  1. Writer of words

    There is a lot here to process…where to begin?

    It brings me back to my last career-job, a place I left right after 9/11…it was time, but hindsight taught me that the place was a salt mine.

    Can you say that about a place of employment whom you depend on for income? I’m sure you understand the implications.

    Anyway, clever composition here, as always. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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