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.
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?
Lies from on high…
My agency is in trouble. The big office lost another big account, the blood has to trickle our way soon enough. What kills me is the happy-go-lucky face our managers (always) put on it. “Hey, things are tough all over!” The Boss says. “Besides, we just won some business!”
Bullshit. Tell me you’re not making a list of people to whack.
Just a few heads at a time, right? That way you can deny they’re layoffs. I know how it works. We all do.
As for the new business we supposedly won, it probably translates to about 80 thousand dollars of revenue. Still, it’s all about the “float.” Maintain the illusion (or is it allusion?) that all is well…or else…
Or else what? That the fuckheads in Adland will know they’re not the only ones struggling to make ends meet…to make ads…to make any fucking sense to clients or anyone anymore?
Gun
I bought a used handgun. I wanted to ask the guy I bought it from if it had been used to kill anyone but didn’t. That wouldn’t be cool. I figured if ever there was a time to be cool it was when you’re buying a gun.
I’ve been thinking about owning a piece for some time, just kind of sitting with the idea. When those flash mobs erupted all over our city I made my decision. Not because I was afraid but because I wanted a good target. In my mind they would do.
You might think I harbor this fantasy to shoot my ex’s dumbass boyfriend, Brad. And you’d be right. But then what? I’d be the lovesick psycho who whacked his ex’s boyfriend. I’m not giving either of them that power.
Fantasizing about unloaded on a bunch of roving thugs seems so much more heroic. Maybe I’ll hang out down by Oak Street Beach and make myself an easy target. I’ll take my bike with me for bait. What back gang wouldn’t want to fuck over an artsy-fartsy white dude from River West? I’ll just stare at them as they approach me with their “What you lookin’ at?” and “You gotta a problem?” and I’ll answer: “Yeah, fuckface. You!” When they start jumping up and down like apes I’ll start laughing. When they get close enough I’ll start shooting. I see their fake gold chains and bloodied sweats. I smell the smoke from my gun as it mingles with the odor of ripped apart flesh. When I run out of bullets I’ll just get on my bike and ride away.
The next morning I’ll get up and go to work and make junk mail, another crime.
Motherfucker
Today I added the word “motherfucker” into a piece of copy, buried it in the legal stuff down at the bottom. Nobody reads that shit anyway, right?
I knew they’d find it. But that was part of the fun. I just wanted to see how far down the line my “motherfucker” could go before some drone in sector G came upon it. Would it get as gar as the client? One can dream.
Alas, my “motherfucker” only made it past the junior AE before being outed by the art director in charge of setting copy. I begged her to just let it go, just for fun.
She said there was nothing funny about losing our jobs.
They won’t fire us, I answered. Worst comes to worst, we’ll just blame it on the printer.
Leslie (not her real name) just looked at me in disgust. You know what, she said, you’re a fucking whack job. Leslie has no tits and a bunch of tiny moles all over her chalky white skin.
It’s just a word, I replied. Or is it two? The point is no one will ever see it. They’ll send 250,000 pieces to 250,000 idiots and not one of them will catch it because none of them will read it. You know that. And I know that. Consider this an acid test for direct marketing. We can prove once and for all how useless legal copy is! That lone “motherfucker” is a game changer!
Leslie stared at me like some angry bitch from a TV show. I’m emailing you back this copy, she spat, and I want you to take the swear word out. ‘Kay?
Que Sera Sera I sang, leaving the cube. Whatever.
This really happened. My motherfucker will live to see another ad.
Singing with Milfs at the Hilton Garden Inn
Miss me? I’ve been on production. Not TV production. You know me better than that. Rather I was overseeing a print shoot for our big, sucky DM client who shall have to remain nameless. We were doing a series of inane shots to create a modern inventory of client-approved images: smiling executives shaking hands in airports and coffee shops, “safe” minorities grooving in their unlikely lofts or laughing it up at suburban barbecues they would NEVER go to, that sort of crap. Christ, a brain dead chimp could have art-directed these uninspired messes.
Well, he wasn’t available so I did the gig. Got me 4 days of Hilton Honors points in tornado alley. And get this: The Chicago Psycho endured not one but two soul-crushing client dinners. Dining on Z-grade surf and turf I got to watch our junior AE (call her Karen) get drunk with our two clients at the Outback Steakhouse across from the hotel.
The second evening was CRAZY. Ended up in the hotel lounge for Karaoke night. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen three moms doing Journey in front of a pervy group of insurance salesman and assorted sad sacks from “off the beltline.” Don’t stop believing!
One of the clients (call her Sally) is almost hot, a borderline MILF. Tipsy on cheap chardonnay, she would have made a decent lay and I think she wanted it, too. She kept making Mad Men jokes, implying we were all degenerates, one drink away from unforgivable sin. (In my case she was probably right.) Ever the temptress, Sally even took off her tiny diamond from Kay Jewelers during her bit on the stage. Oh, momma!
If AE Karen thought I’d be trouble on this trip, I’d soon relieved her of that worry. If anything, I was the dull one, the introvert, the guy not up for anything. Like all AE’s Karen was a worrier and she looked the part. She had black, close-cropped hair, a birdlike face and nervous demeanor. She was a sparrow, ordinary but jumpy. I felt sorry for Karen. She viewed the whole trip as a series of accidents waiting to happen
At least the two MILFS fit into my pornographic paradigm. I could imagine banging either one of them. Especially Sally. I liked watching her big corn fed boobs sway back and forth during her slutty rendition of Loving, Touching Squeezing.
Yet, I kept thinking of something Sarah told me before she left me. She said I always judged women based on their sexuality. She’d called it sexual discrimination. “So what?” I remember answering, slapping her ass, “I’m a discriminating man.” Instead of laughing, Sarah pouted and went into the other room. A few weeks later she was gone for good.
Like the other men, I leer at Sally drunkenly gyrating up on the makeshift stage. One dude –an ass clown in khakis and a golf shirt- even threw her his room key, which she then slid between her ample, sweaty tits. Of course it was all for show. She wasn’t going to fuck that guy. Tomorrow she’d act like nothing even happened. And she’d be right.
Clive
Been a while since my last entry. Thing is, I’d been in a good mood -Surprise, surprise! But who the fuck wants to read a blog on my rare bout with happiness? Other than my mom, no one. So, I spared you.
Well, consider my good mood officially over. The agency just stuck me with a new cube mate, some dude who used to be an account guy but now fancies himself a copywriter. Jesus Christ, I thought that shit like that was an urban myth.
Clive (not his real name) has to write catalog copy for our agency’s lone healthcare account. Clive was the only human solution the agency could come up with for filling this cum-dumpster of a job description. Clive has to write catalogue copy for our agency’s lone healthcare account. For those unawares, that means connecting thousands of complicated words nobody uses for some of the most difficult clients on Earth. Clive was the only sorry ass sorry enough to do it.
What makes Clive even more pathetic is that he actually thinks it’s his entrée into the “normal” creative department. Sorry, Clive that particular lie was reserved for chumps like me. You are below me, Clive. You will never leave your lowly position unless it’s out the front door. Your bosses will string you along with false promises to placate you. But you might as well cultivate the ass groove in your chair because you ain’t going anywhere. Ever. Again. Unless of course you get fired, which is what will happen the first sign of trouble.
Hey, guess what? I’m starting to get in a good mood again. I’m such an asshole, right? But at least I’m not Clive.
Friends
This may not come as a surprise but I don’t have very many friends. Fuck, I don’t have any friends. This dude I knew in college once said a real friend is someone who’d get up in the middle of the night to come bail you out of jail. I sure as shit don’t have any of those. Sarah never understood or liked my lack of friendships. Coming from a small town, and a family that loved her relentlessly, she couldn’t comprehend a man who isolated and kept to him self… on fucking purpose!
I told her it just meant I had more time for her. Which was 100% true. That worked for a while. But then Brad and his Beamer and parties on football Saturday swept Sarah back into a world she was familiar with.
Back to the friends thing… I’ve never had a lot of them. When I was younger, I hung out with a lot of dudes, had what I considered to be a best friend. Over the years, I had a few best friends. But in the end they all let me down. And I just kept moving on. Besides I was starting serious relationships with Jack, Johnny and Mary Jane. These amigos stuck with me through thick and thin. Ten years on they would fuck me over a barrel but that’s another story.
Groups of people at the agency like to hang with each other. Sometimes they invite me along. Mostly I say no, especially since I quit drinking. Once in a while, though, I go along to keep up appearances and to maybe get a piece of ass. If you hang around a herd of drinkers long enough you can usually nail a straggler.
I’m pretty sure these cliques of ad people think they’re great friends but it’s bullshit. As soon as one quits, gets promoted, or is fired, the rest of the group loses interest and the feeling is usually mutual. Matter of fact, I’d say few bonds are as tenuous as those created in an advertising agency. Not sure if it’s because we’re in a sleazy business or because everyone is uber-competitive or both. I just know come next year, 90% of your best buds won’t be. Might as well stop pretending you live in a hip sitcom and get used to it. I did.
I can still hear her complain…
One of you sent me a comment suggesting I give my ex, Sarah “too much credit.” That I should get over her and move on. You’re right but you need to understand two things:
1) Sarah was the first and only woman I ever gave more than two shits about. The way things look and feel right now she just might be the last.
2) I’m a recovering addict. That means I obsess over things I cannot have. I crave things that give me pleasure even if they aren’t good for me, like narcotics, vodka or Sarah.
Special thanks to the guy who sent me a Guns & Roses song I’d never heard before: Used to Love Her. Fucking amazing, I’m playing it now.
I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I had to put her
Six feet under
And I can still hear her complainI used to love her, but I had to kill her
I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I knew I miss her
So I had to keep her
She’s buried right in my back yardI used to love her, but I had to kill her
I used to love her, but I had to kill her
She bitched so much
She drove me nuts
And now I’m happier this way
Comment from a Jack-off
So, a guy named “Jack” (using the pathetic, fake email Joe@aol.com) sent me the following comment:
“I just read all your posts, You’ve been relegated to DM because you’re an astonishingly bad writer. Might want to go back to the drugs and alcohol.”
Well, Jack I think I write about as sweet as your mother’s pussy tasted last time I was down there. Furthermore, if I’m such a bad writer then how come you “just read all my posts?”
But hey, I’m not mad. Heck, I’m mean and lonely myself. That’s why I write a blog called Chicago Psycho. So, what’s your story? Sweet smelling mom kick you out of the basement?
Unfair Pay at the Agency
The other night I snuck into our Chief Creative’s office and hacked into his computer. I knew where his assistant kept the keys (in a pencil cup on her desk) and I got his computer’s password from her as well. She literally had it written on a Post-It note stuck to her computer! What a dipshit. They both deserve each other.
In the back of my head I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I was on a mission to uncover a greater wrong. With his keys and password just dangling there, I looked at it as the Dark Lord presenting me an opportunity I couldn’t refuse.
The rumor was that creatives from the ad practice made significantly more money than us retards in direct marketing. Adding insult to injury, this was despite us making the agency all its money.
I knew the management team had been meeting to discuss raises and the like and so I was pretty sure the CCO would have payrolls on his computer. And there it was. The icon said “employee salaries.” Again: dipshit. It took me less than a minute to find some of the agency’s most privileged information.
Guess what? The rumors underestimated the discrepancy. Every one of the advertising creative directors made at least 150k. One made almost 200k. Yet, on the direct side, only one CD made six figures, just barely. The rest of them were in the low nineties with one poor fuck not even getting that.
Even worse, the rank and file (of which I’m a part), made 25 to 40% less than our counterparts in the ad practice. I wasn’t surprised (it’s probably the same at your agency) but seeing the names and numbers still hurt and sucked. Advertising was dying and yet they pay themselves more than those of us who actually make the work…and the revenue.
I copied the document on a thumb drive. Maybe I’ll send it to the hate bloggers or literally post the fucking thing in the elevators and toilets. I’m too pissed to make a wise decision now. Like my shrink used to say: Count to fucking ten.
Venting the teapot
Now that I’m not using I don’t sleep so well. It’s not like I slept well before, more like passed out, but there’s something to be said for oblivion. It’s like closure, never as healthy and satisfying as we’d hoped but at least it’s an ending.
And so late at night I write these posts. Which strikes me as a better use of my head and hands than You Porn.
Writing vents the teapot. Otherwise, I’d lie in bed thinking about Sarah maybe and her new life without me. Or the crap I write at work. Or my fat boss and his boss, the dinosaur with the Chinese tattoo. And then…
And then I’d get angry, worked up, and I’d want to do bad things.
The worst is when I just lie there not sleeping and think about all the bad things I’ve already done. That’s the worst. Regret trumps anger.
Writing vents the teapot. Tonight it has saved someone from me.
Off my leash
According to my dashboard, more and more of you are reading this blog every day. Over a thousand today. Is it the sex, the drugs, or the advertising?
I can tell from your IP addresses that many of you are in advertising. Some of you even work at my agency. Yesterday, I heard a guy talking in the break room. He said he thinks he knows who I am. He also thinks he has talent. Wrong on both counts.
Sarah wanted me to see a shrink. She said I had anger issues. But then she left me. And I left the shrink. Anyway, he told me to start a journal. And since I don’t write with pencils or pens here we are.
On some level I must like the attention. Copywriters crave attention. We’re egomaniacs with inferiority complexes. That’s right, I said ‘WE.’ Don’t agree? Then explain all the industry awards shows. Let me tell you, I sure as hell get more love here than from any of those. Most agencies don’t even enter what I write into any shows at all. Not unless it’s a candy ass direct marketing show. Try putting an ECHO award on your resume.
Look, I know I write shit. It lands in your spam folder and you delete it. Fuck, I would. But here is different. All I have to do is tell the truth…about this business…about me. And you read it. And you come back for more. Like a pack of wild dogs.
Well, consider me your alpha dog, bitches. Because I’m not going to stop until someone stops me. The bad dog is off his leash.
Bad Dog
Women say men are dogs. That’s fine. I like dogs.
Now men can be good dogs. Or we can be bad dogs. Usually, we display characteristics of both. We seldom are only one. But what happens if we feed one dog more than the other?
What do I mean by “feed?”
In my case, drinking and drugging fed the bad dog. And the dog became very bad indeed. I don’t do that anymore but the bad dog lingers, looking for scraps. And there are plenty of those.
For example:
Lying feeds the bad dog. Except for changing names and various details, I don’t tell lies here but in life I lie all the time. Don’t you? We’re all bad dogs. Pornography feeds the bad dog. The bad dog rolls around in porn like it’s shit in the backyard. Stealing a woman’s purse at a club and then returning it so she’ll go home with me fed the bad dog. So did pissing in Brad’s BMW but I considered that marking my territory. He stole my bitch from me. He’s lucky I didn’t poison his steak.
Chicago Psycho 