Puss ‘n Boots

Haven’t written in a while. Maybe I’ve been working my ass off. Maybe they’re on to me. Maybe I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. Maybe I’m still doing them. Who gives a fuck, anyway? Make a little junk mail. Do a little dance. Get down tonite.

What do you want to talk about? Pussy? Excellent. Good topic. You know kids, the best part about fall is women start putting legs into boots. Boots with fur on top. Boots with heels at bottom. Boots that go all the way up to those fine, 7 for all Mankind asses. Christ, I get hard just thinking about it.

We have the usual assortment at our agency: A couple honeys from Lincoln Park (including my ex), a few MILFS commuting from the North Shore; and, of course, a flock of chicks from Wicker Park. Wouldn’t be a creative department without the artsy chicks, the ones who like dancing with fags at Berlin, crappy plays at midnight and burritos from some shack on Ashland Avenue. Sound like your agency? Maybe it is, bro.

If any girls are reading this here’s how I want you to dress tomorrow. Starting from the floor, put on your longest boots, brown suede. Then pour your fine self into a pair of jeans. On top rock a plaid flannel shirt. I won’t tell you what to do with your hair. Ladies- it’s that fuckin’ easy.

Tomorrow then… I’ll be the man in the elevator with a raging hard on.

All work and no play…

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

The Office

I was watching reruns of The office last night when I had an epiphany: People in real offices try so desperately hard NOT to be like the characters in The Office that they end up being just like them. Take our boss. He tries to be the cool and detached creative director, donning a pseudo hip-hop wardrobe, playing aloof-boy, but then, all of a sudden, he’s “chillaxing” (his word) in your office, asking how the weekend was and did you get laid, blah, blah, blah. In other words, he needs validation that his cool shtick was being appreciated, which, basically, deep sixes the coolness. It’s like Michael’s character on the office, trying so hard to be the BOSS and also wanting to be liked by his employees.

Phantom of the Agency

Quiet as hell…

This morning I perused two recently vacated offices looking for, I don’t know: some hidden note from the newly departed, secret photos, contraband! But no, just the usual paperclips, pens and a few semi-current briefs. It’s like Dick and Jane were never here.

As expected, the folks on high remain in their corners. Backed up, full of fear, they held on to their positions, burrowing into the many papers of their padded contracts. Alas, they were untouchable, too costly to remove.

We are called rank and file because we can be ranked and filed. And many were. Put into brown boxes out on the loading dock. Gone, baby, gone!

Maybe we are all mirages of dutiful, happy employees? I feel like a phantom now, haunting empty hallways, looking for remnants.

Back in my office I surf the web, recklessly cavorting with naked ladies. But that violates company policy. Like handing out bonuses after the body count. Whoever is left in IT probably has more pressing issues, like updating the agency’s Facebook page: “Check out our awesome new space at cocktail hour!”

Like it never happened. Like all is well. Well, children, “our awesome new space” just got bigger. Scream and you’ll hear an echo.

The shit canning…

“By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes.”

Lots of us are going to lose their jobs in the coming weeks, days, maybe even tomorrow.

But not me. Like I’ve written before, I’m a creator of direct mail. That means I’ll survive the bloodletting. As much as our D-bag Chief Creative Officer would love to fire my ass, he can’t. Oh, the irony! We make the dreck. We stay on deck.

Come to think of it the CCO and his get are the low hanging, heavy salaries…the anvils in our deflating balloon. Toss them we sail through the shit storm. And while they’re at it, why not throw all their decade-old Clios overboard as well?

In praise of older women

Thinking about older women a lot these days (and nights).

Something about them…

I know what a MILF is and a Cougar is. I’ve seen the websites. Hot Moms are hot right now.

But my yearning is different…

What I like is the younger version of the lady. I can sometimes see it in their faces, under the glasses, behind the lines. I see the cheerleader or the coed and the girl next door. She’s trying to show her face. So she tightens her ass in the gym. Adds a bit of silicone or saline to her breasts. Sometimes she dresses like a naughty girl. I like that.

We’ve got one at the agency. Divorced. Remarried. Been around the block. She dyes her hair but some Mondays I see the grey. It doesn’t bother me a bit. I like her when she’s vulnerable, when the hotness inside is fighting with the oldness. I think about pulling off her sorry-ass dress. (Didn’t you wear that last summer?) Fuck, I don’t care. It’s after six and you’re still here.

I love the idea of you beneath me, moaning like a schoolgirl, wanting so much to go back there, the hotness inside is killing you. Shut your tired eyes and open your yoga-tightened legs. Let me in, lady. I will make you forget about advertising and everything else you can’t stand.

Later. After. Go home to your husband and his teen-aged children from another pussy. Let him have you, too. Let him taste me.

Paint

They moved some walls. Painted others. There’s creativity in the hallways. Look, by the elevator… How cool is that?

But why is it so quiet? Why aren’t we a buzzing beehive making award-winning honey?

Shall I tell you, boys and girls? Do I even need to?

You know that crazy old lady in a miniskirt with too much makeup? Not the actual person but the idea of her. She’s decrepit and dying but doesn’t see it. She has a memory of herself, young and beautiful, desired by many suitors.

Alas, she’s delusional.

Just like us.

Vigilante

The other day a group of people from the office invited me to join them at some dumbass watering hole up the street. I declined. Hey, don’t get me wrong despite by misanthropic tendencies I do appreciate it when other human beings actually ask me to do something with them. In terms of the blokes at work, their tiny kindness might keep my wrath at bay or at least move them down the list.

Whatever. The reason I passed on the invite was I had a gut feeling to go home instead. It was a hot summer night and the air was, as they say, charged with electricity. I knew something was going to happen.

It did. About 11PM I was sitting on my piss-ant balcony overlooking the gentrifying hood beneath. My eyes followed a comely twenty-something as she moseyed her way up the street. Like most chicks, she had her cute face stuck in a phone.

I wasn’t the only one ogling the babe. Out of nowhere this black dude sporting dreadlocks jumps the woman knocking her down, her glittery purse and phone flying away from her. The chick starts screaming. And what does the brother do? Instead of grabbing her shit he starts wailing on her. Fucking scum. I yelled from my perch: “Hey, Motherfucker!” He looks up. Gives me the goddamn finger.

What he doesn’t know is I have my gun. I pull it out from under by lawn chair and aim it right at his sweaty black ass. He can’t see the pistol but at least he’s not beating the girl anymore. I’ve got him right in my sights. Even though the guy who sold me the weapon said it wasn’t very accurate after 25 yards, I yearned to fire.

And so I did. The blast was magnificent, like an orgasm. I missed the thug but damn if he didn’t sprint away like a frightened bunny. The chick stood up and I could tell she was looking toward my building. She started waving. I heard sirens and decided to go on in. My work here was done.

Hellevator

Got caught in the elevator with two of the most senior people in our agency. Just me and them. Only a few floors but it seemed like hours…

Robin (not her real name) says “Nice shirt” to me. I’m wearing a plain black tee-shirt so I don’t know whether she’s fucking with me or just being fake nice. I’ve written about Robin before. She’s the undeserving, power hungry bitch who got where she is on a healthy cocktail of ass kissing and back- stabbing. Certainly not on account of her looks. She’s had work done and needs more. She keeps her sunglasses on (chronic liars do that) and in her too snug, two-hundred dollar grey suit reminds me of those sad bitches you see in airports aggressively trying to upgrade on a flight to fucking Omaha. ‘Do you know who I think I am!’

Rob (not his real name either) is her boss. He’s older than the rocks at the bottom of Lake Michigan. He stares straight at the crack in the elevator door like it was Kim Kardashian’s ass. Rob has bad dandruff. I can see the flakes from here. He looks like he came in from a snowstorm. But it’s fucking July and why he’s wearing a thick blue blazer is anyone’s guess. Bigger question is how he got reigns on this company. Still, I’ve got no beef with Rob. Rob knows guys like me run the railroad. The junk email I create pays for his Grecian Formula. Rob says nothing.

Instead of staring at my feet like some pussy I look right at them. I wonder which one of us is the devil.

Mutant Anal Sex

Saw Xmen First Class the other night. Went alone, which I don’t mind. It’s easier to get a good seat and you don’t have to share your popcorn. Besides, who’s going to go with me? My girl left me and I own a gun. I’m certifiable.

The thing I like about Xmen is that they’re fucking mutants, different from “normal” people and despised because of it. I can relate. Unfortunately, I don’t have a super power, just a gun and quick legs.

But the good-hearted Professor X would hate my ass, because if I had a funky super power I’d no doubt use it to serve my own evil purposes. First I’d make myself invisible and enter Sarah and Brad’s apartment. After dispatching him, I’d assume his form and bang my ex, rolling her over and taking her from behind. She’d cry and cry and then I’d tell her that that’s what you get for hooking up with a baseball cap wearing ex-jock sports marketing douchebag. The confused, hurt look on her face would be better than the sex.

What good are super powers if you don’t use them?