Most people are ineffectual by nature. And by ineffectual I mean lazy, lollygagging dullards. It doesnÂ’t take a lot of effort to surpass them. I suspect an hour a day of solid work is all you need to look better than them.

People who call a lot of meetings fall into these categories:

a.) CanÂ’t or wonÂ’t make their own decisions
b.) Believe in decision by committee
c.) Are out of their league intellectually
d.) Are seeking other people to do the heavy lifting

Most people attending meetings are trying not to take on any action items. Your job is to appear busier and smarter than anyone else in the room without talking too much.

Rule #1: Never be early or late to a meeting.

Too early and you look like youÂ’ve got nothing better to do. Also, people could ask questions that if you answered with the room empty become someone elseÂ’s ideas when the room is full. Being late is never a good idea either.

If you stroll in five minutes early carrying a grande latte or whatever the hell those things are you look like your relaxed and at ease—and that’s not good. You need to look like you’re working your ass off, not standing in line for expensive ersatz coffee.

Rule #2: Ask for an agenda.

How important can a meeting be if thereÂ’s no agenda? A lot of people calling meetings donÂ’t publish one and it makes them look idiotic when you ask. After all, youÂ’re busy and have little time for small talk.

Rule #3: Keep looking at your watch

DonÂ’t overdue it, but you have to look like you have responsibilities and deadlines. I walk around looking like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.

Rule #4: Ask the question

“Who’s going to publish the minutes for this meeting?” It’s always the first thing I ask. By asking who will do it you remove yourself from the equation. It’s also a good idea to let the blowhards know that if they commit to something in that room they will be held to it.

Rule #5: Speak up

Important phrases to use at a meeting:

“I think we’re getting off track here.”
“I think that’s beyond the scope of this meeting.”
“Enough with the abstract, let’s talk about what’s practical.”

The idea is to keep this shit moving, because to most people, a meeting is just a place to sit down and bullshit/pontificate/theorize.

Rule #6: Your opinion

One sentence: “The concept is fundamentally sound.” You really can’t go wrong with that one.

If asked for suggestions I usually let other people speak first and watch the reactions they get. I never look directly at the speaker; I watch the face of the highest ranking officer. If someone starts sinking IÂ’ll usually let them kill themselves unless I smell haughtiness, in which case IÂ’ll jump in and really point out their stupidity.

Rule #7: Things you should never say in a meeting

“I’d like to be more involved with this project.”
“I can expedite some of the paperwork.”
“Jane’s tits can’t possibly be real.”

Need I elaborate?

Rule #8: What not to wear to a meeting

You never want to look too prosperous. Meetings, and the workplace in general, is not a good place to wear a Rolex. Get the idea?

Rule #9: Act like a professional

Gum chewing, pen twirling and leaning back in your chair are not good ideas. Most importantly, for the love of God, donÂ’t keep scratching you head and your ears. You look like youÂ’ve got fucking lice. I sat through a meeting this morning and watched as two separate people dug at their scalp and their ears with total abandon. I was sooo close to screaming at them.

Rule #10: Navigating shallow water

This really entails a full post. Evaluating the battle lines is crucial. Which faction is stronger or more important plays a key part in your strategy. The outcome of most meetings is predetermined anyway. Rarely do people seek honest council in a conference room. The scene played out is usually to reinforce policy or to put pressure on a group to deliver more. Sometimes itÂ’s pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey or hot potato. WhoÂ’s budget is getting hit with what, whoÂ’s to blame for the Mongolian Cluster in Chicago, etc. ItÂ’s best to determine what the purpose of the meeting really is before you get there.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:53 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 750 words, total size 4 kb.

I went to New Orleans once, about ten years ago. Frankly, I thought it was a seedy shithole. I saw people peeing in alleys in the French Quarter, drunks everywhere and a general disregard human decency.

Let me say that I am not a prude. I enjoy a few drinks. Maybe more than a few on occasion. IÂ’ve been known to visit rowdy establishments, roadhouses and strip joints. And even though I havenÂ’t done those things in quite a few years itÂ’s not because IÂ’m against them, itÂ’s because I outgrew them, more or less. But when I was in New Orleans I saw the worst of the worst. The place was pretty gross.

Then Katrina hit and it was a terrible tragedy. I donated money along with everyone else. Things are picking back up now, but since that fateful event the city is still getting plenty of attention from the media. The result is that people from all over the place are now seeing whatÂ’s always been there.

Now the National Guard has been called in because the fucking place is like 1881 Tombstone, Arizona.

“…five teenagers in an SUV were shot and killed in the city's deadliest attack in at least 11 years. Police said the attack was apparently motivated by drugs or revenge. Also, a man was stabbed to death Sunday night in an argument over beer.”

ItÂ’s hard to believe that that idiot was reelected mayor, but he was. And now he needs to find himself some lawmen because itÂ’s like the wild west.

IÂ’ve been to some wide-open towns before. IÂ’ve partied in places you canÂ’t imagine in both America and overseas, but that place always struck me as being a cesspool. When was the last time the National Guard had to restore order in an American city? Aside from this one? I know what you're going to say. "They don't have as many cops as they used to before the storm." That doesn't mean people have to kill each other. We're not talking about stealing anymore, we're talking about murders.

I’m not one of those people that think NO got what it deserves when that storm hit. I’m not a racist. I’m not a born again—I’m all about debauchery.

I just never liked the place.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:56 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 395 words, total size 2 kb.

Last week I told my kid IÂ’d get her a little something because her behavior has been so incredibly exemplary lately. Beyond belief, really. Somehow IÂ’ve produced a smart, sweet, quiet kid that never seems to do anything wrong. Very spooky considering my own childhood.

Anyway, on Saturday we went to get her a little something. I still get excited when toy shopping because I still love toys. I was hoping to steer her towards a Lite Brite or something else I could play with.

The first thing you notice in a toy store these days is the complete and utter lack of toy guns. When I was a kid the toy gun aisle was the biggest in the store. I would hang out in that aisle for an hour before making my choice. These days there is no gun aisle and it breaks my heart. And just for the record, even though I played with toy guns throughout my youth, I have never shot anyone with a real gun. That wasnÂ’t asking for it. But I kid. IÂ’m a kidder.

She ended up with some popular little doll figures. I spent an hour trying to get her to change her mind. I stumbled into one aisle that all kinds of games I remembered from my own childhood.

“Look honey, it’s Don’t Spill the Beans!”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a game I used to play when I was your age.”

“I don’t want that. Can we go home now?”

I really wanted it. DonÂ’t Break the Ice was there too and I really wanted them both. After a fruitless attempt at getting her to switch she finally dragged me away. Later that night I told my old lady the story.

“She wasn’t budging from the doll.” I said.

“Don’t Spill the Beans? No shit? You should have gotten it for us! Man, I could really go for a game of that right now.”

This morning she called me at the office about something.

“Are you going anywhere today?” I asked.

“I have to go to Target.”

“You have to get Don’t Spill the Beans!”

“Good idea!”

Hopefully by the time I get home sheÂ’ll have it ready to go. My life is so sad.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:13 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 379 words, total size 2 kb.

To my wife:

On MotherÂ’s Day, you refused to give me a list, insisting that I come up with gift ideas on my own. You know what torture that is for me. Then this week you ask me for a gift list for FatherÂ’s Day. WTF?

Well, here it is, but youÂ’re going to have to work for it. Decipher the clues to find out what I want. One or two of these is enough, some are expensive.

#1. Some stuff is just not available on iTunes. This album was released in November of 1971 by a band that I enjoy and you donÂ’t. Additional clues: croquet, hogweed.

#2. Small bottle of that cologne that I like.

#3. Another CD (double), same band as above. Released in 1974, deals with a tired mammal in NYC. You really hate this one.

#4. Another CD, same band again. Four CD box set released in 1998 and deals with older material only. Careful, I donÂ’t want the three CD box set.

In other news, Shank apparently went on a sugar and booze bender last night and posted like, fourteen times. And in yet other news, IÂ’m still watching this every fifteen minutes or so and laughing myself into coughing fits.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:28 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 213 words, total size 1 kb.

Wiscounsin, huh?

I think the annoying bastard deserves it.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:39 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 23 words, total size 1 kb.

This news report from Alabama (go figure) focuses on a group of people who swear they have a leprechaun living in a neighborhood tree.

ItÂ’s got it all. An amateur drawing, crazy peopleÂ…you really have to see it to believe it.

I literally couldn’t stop crying. Don’t miss the classic line, “I want to know where the gold at.”

This has got to be the funniest thing on the web.

***Update***
I can't stop watching this and shaking with laughter.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:31 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 88 words, total size 1 kb.

Ever notice a TV show character completely vanish from a popular show and theyÂ’re never heard from again? I had no idea it had a name, but it does. Chuck Cunningham Syndrome. You can scroll down and see a list of popular shows where this phenomenon took place and little bit about each one.

In more heinous news, thereÂ’s also Cousin Oliver Syndrome. Remember that little bastard? Scroll down and see a list of other shows that played this card to keep the show afloat long after it was clinically dead. I actually shuddered at some of these.

I should hat tip someone here but I honestly canÂ’t remember where I saw it. Probably Dlisted.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:34 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 121 words, total size 1 kb.

This has been a pet peeve of mine for a long, long time.

There is no such thing as adding “II” to your name. Does everyone understand that?

You’re “Junior.” I’m sorry, but that is a fact. I know that you don’t want to be called junior. You don’t want “Junior” on legal documents. I can understand that. You’re a big strong man. You’re James Theodore Winthorpe II.

But you’re not. And you’re not fooling anyone. Not me, anyway, ‘cause I know how this works. If you have the same exact name as your father you are “Jr.” There’s no such thing as II. Some try to sneak by with 2nd. Pleases stop the bullshit. When the elder dies, you are promoted to “Sr.” Does that help? Because you’re making an ass of yourself trying to pull this off. People are laughing much harder at “II” than they are at “Jr.”

Get used to it, Junior.

Primarily in the U.S.A. (and never in the U.K.), boys who should be styled junior are sometimes incorrectly labeled with the suffix ‘II’, particularly if there is a third or fourth with the same name. Even if a legal title, this is socially incorrect; strictly speaking, ‘II’, pronounced the second, refers to a boy who is named after his grandfather, uncle, or cousin. The suffixes ‘II’, ‘III’, etc. are also correctly written 2nd, 3rd, etc.

More proof that you are an idiot here and here.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:55 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 259 words, total size 2 kb.

I see plenty of bloggers are excited about the World Cup.

If youÂ’re a soccer fan, you probably donÂ’t live in America. If you are a soccer fan living in America: I pity you. If you are a blogger who doesnÂ’t even know how many men you need to field a team, letÂ’s just be honest about it from the get-go. I suspect many bloggers will jump on this bandwagon because itÂ’s the only one on the prairie.

I’m an unabashed soccer detractor. I fear things I don’t understand. If it were up to me, I would beat soccer to death with a stick—like a garter snake on the patio.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:36 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 116 words, total size 1 kb.

IÂ’ve had a bottle of Dom in my fridge since New YearÂ’s Eve. It was a leftover, of sorts, that has been waiting for a proper occasion. IÂ’ve been tempted several times since than but IÂ’ve held out.

And this morning I wake up to find that that goddamned, sub-human cockroach has been stamped out—sent to hell on the express train—courtesy of a couple of five hundred pound bombs. I haven’t been this happy since I discovered masturbation as a lad.

IÂ’ve never been one to celebrate death but there are a few exceptions, such as this one and that Serbian asshole and a handful of others. Well, quite a few others, I will admit. So tonight IÂ’ll pop the cork and celebrate the extermination of that fucking vampire. That maggot encrusted, shit-filled bag of diarrheatic pus.

Burn, baby, burn
Disco inferno
Burn, baby, burn
Burn that mutha down

Â….The Trammps, 1977

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:15 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
Post contains 160 words, total size 1 kb.

The other day I heard that the median I.Q is 100.

That scares the hell out of me. That means that one half of us have a double digit I.Q. No wonder everything is so jacked up.

They say that 100, plus or minus 10, indicates average intelligence. IÂ’m not so sure about that. Seventy-five is the beginning of retardation so IÂ’m not sure IÂ’d count ninety as average intelligence.

Where do you think people in the 75-90 range work? If youÂ’re thinking garbage men, or landscapers youÂ’d be wrong. My suggestion is to stand up and peer around the other cubes. Take a walk down the hall and get some water.

I rest my case.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:39 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 120 words, total size 1 kb.

Talent is a funny thing. I know IÂ’ve talked about this before but my fascination hasnÂ’t subsided.

I don’t have a lot of ideas. I’m not what you would call “an idea man.” That doesn’t make me an idiot. I have a more than respectable job and a fancy title and a lot of responsibilities—far ranging responsibilities. I’ve come to the conclusion that the farther one moves up the corporate ladder the less specific their responsibilities become. And while I’m supposed to be running a lot of different things, what it really boils down to is that I am Winston Wolf.

"I'm Winston Wolf. I solve problems."
more...

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:53 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 798 words, total size 5 kb.

ThereÂ’s nothing more fun than a couple of wiseasses pulling a Bill Nye.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:37 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 23 words, total size 1 kb.

Trust me on this one.

***Link Now Works***

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:44 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 14 words, total size 1 kb.

I went to my kidÂ’s dance recital on Saturday. Four hours in all, of which she was on the stage a total of three minutes. I was medicated, but not nearly enough. Some of you might remember last yearÂ’s affair, where stuck in those small cramped seats I had to endure the smell of shit for several hours. This time wasnÂ’t much better.

YouÂ’re only allowed to leave the auditorium between dances and they had Gestapo posted at all the doors insuring the mandate was enforced. There were 45 individual songs/dances of which my kid participated in one, plus the finale. That guarantees the seats stay full to the end. My kid went on, like third, and then we had three more hours to kill before we could retrieve her. The trouble started early.

The idiots who were sitting next to us had set up camp and we had to get through them to get to the aisle. I sat in my seat with my camera and program on my lap. In contrast, the buttholes had four bouquets of flowers, a handful of programs and two backpacks all laid out on the floor at their feet. And I had to pee.

I held it until our kid was done and then we planned our exit to the bathroom. The problem was that between the dances they turned all the lights out completely. It was like being at the bottom of a well. YouÂ’d think that the red exit signs mandated by law would throw at least some light but youÂ’d be wrong. Also, the time between dances was like one minute, so you had to act fast.

The lights went off and I bolted up, carrying my shit with one hand and grabbing the old lady with the other. It was hopelessly dark…I really couldn’t see anything. I said, “Excuse me!” at the top of my voice, but the assholes sitting there didn’t bother to move. Again, “I said, excuse me!” Still nothing. I was standing there in the dark like a jackass and I’d had enough.

I started stomping through. The first thing I felt under my right foot was a bouquet of flowers. There was no room to walk normally so I had to side-shuffle, and in doing so felt my left foot smash the remains. Then I hit a backpack, but felt it lifted from my path, with a great sigh. Like I was putting these people out or something. “Excuse me!” I shouted again because I was trying to be polite, but he was still unrepentant as after moving the backpack he was just sitting back in his chair. The rest of his brood was just as useless. I plowed over more flowers, ice skated on his programs and stepped all over his feet. I got by him, but not before he took a head shot from the camera. He actually yelped when I clocked him. I was still dragging my wife by the hand so whatever I didn’t completely smash she surely did.

I heard her saying excuse me as well but these people just didnÂ’t get it. By the time we hit the aisle we had steamrolled over four people and their possessions. The doors were closed, the lights were up and we hadnÂ’t gotten out. I was standing to the side now and looked over at the assholes. They were watching the performance like nothing had happened. Smiling.

I could have beaten the whole family to death at that point and not lost any sleep. With the lights up I could see the damage weÂ’d done getting out. All the flower bouquets were completely destroyed. Flattened. The programs were torn up good and had giant, size twelve footprints on the remains. The best part was the giant bag of Cheetos that were completely and totally demolished, IÂ’m assuming by my wife, because I never felt them. Have you seen a big, stepped on bag of Cheetos recently? ItÂ’s quite a sight.

We stayed outside for about an hour and we knew we could ever return to our seats down front. We stayed up in the nosebleed section for the remainder where we had some room and could chat without disturbing others. It was a wholly miserable experience, save the three minutes of my kid. I wouldnÂ’t have missed that, and I though I pay a heavy price each year itÂ’s worth it.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:05 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 743 words, total size 4 kb.

I had a moment of clarity over the weekend while I was watching a commercial for what appears to be another cheesy talent show on fox. During the commercial, a guy took a flying leap and landed on his face, which got my attention. The show is called, “So you think you can dance?”

It came to me in a flash. I’d like to develop a show called, “So you think you can swear?”

Just think about the auditions. Brooklyn plumbers, Princeton frat boys, all branches of the military would probably be represented, et. al. Granted it would have to be on cable, but I think IÂ’m really on to something.

On a safer note, I’ll also be pitching, “So you think you can read?” because recent experience shows that few people actually can. I’m thinking the best part would be pitting small children against stupid adults.

Brilliant, huh?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:24 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 161 words, total size 1 kb.

Did you know that President Gerald R. Ford’s real name was Leslie Lynch King, Jr.? Because it was, and there was no way a guy named Leslie “Lynch King” was getting elected. That’s not why he changed it, but that’s beyond the scope of this shitty post.

On the other hand, a guy with a fairly normal name, Arnold Gerry Dorsey decided it was better to change it to Engelbert Humperdinck.

More here. You might need that someday.

Also, this just in.

I told you. I must have said it a hundred times.

I said, “Katharine McPhee has no charisma, and she looks like she’s in a daze.”

Well, my track record of spotting the insane at a glace has once again been proved accurate. Now it turns out that there may be a brainwashing cult behind the blank look.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:04 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 148 words, total size 1 kb.

Which of these things are not like the others?

Fireman
Policeman
EMT
Teacher
Star of “Ocean’s Thirteen”

HereÂ’s a harder one:

Which of these things are not like the others?

Tinkerbell
Santa Clause
Global Warming
Tooth Fairy
Internal Revenue Service

HereÂ’s an even harder one:

Who the fuck is Kevin Federline?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:16 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 61 words, total size 1 kb.

I first I thought this was really funny. Then I thought it was sad. Now IÂ’m fully enraged.

Eva Longoria, whom I hoped to hump at some future, post lottery winning time, shows what a real life bitch she is.

I knew it was going to be good as soon as I read the headline:

Eva Longoria Victim of Non-Comped Bar Tab Fiasco

“…Eva grabbed her changed, snipped at the waitress that "Celebrities should be comped!" and stalked out without even leaving a tip.”

Perhaps the most bizarre part of the story is who she was hanging out with. I know I’ve said this before, but I have no respect for “celebrities” who think they’re beyond fucking reproach. When these people start curing cancer or rescuing people from burning buildings please let me know, so I can pay them the respect that they deserve.

This spoiled twat? Five years away from the Surreal Life and a Paula Abdul-like substance addiction. I am officially withdrawing my offer of a hump. There are much nicer people out there I could be stalking.

***UPDATE***
Link now works!

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:25 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 194 words, total size 1 kb.

Remember Jim?

I do. Vaguely. An update might be nice, huh?

Meanwhile, the heat, my God, the heat.

Memorial Day was spent upgrading the property. Very little fun was had and stress levels were near record highs. The rest of this week will entail more work and cleanup after each twelve hour day at the office, which happens to be as hot as the fucking Sonoran desert today. IÂ’m not big on sweating unless IÂ’m actually working out or eating at Lindo Michoacan.

I’m a big fan of ethnic foods, even if the shits are involved the next day. I think it was Anthony Bourdain who said, “It tastes good right now. Of course tomorrow my bathroom will probably look like the one from Trainspotting.”

The only food I really find sketchy is Middle Eastern/Indian/Near East stuff. IÂ’m not a big fan of curd or tea with butter and salt in it. Other than that, IÂ’ll try almost anything.

A lot people talk about pairing wine with food, but a lot food really goes better with beer. Mexican, Chinese, lots of Asian food, burgers and obviously the German stuff. I’ll go out on a limb and say pizza as well, though purists will cringe. The problem with pizza is all the shit people put on there. No self-respecting Italian would ever put pepperoni on pizza. When that shit cooks, all the grease floats up all over the pie. It’s disgusting. And before someone says olive oil is greasy, it’s not the same thing. Pure olive oil—and I’m talking the first cold pressing, extracted without heat or chemicals, is the nectar of the Gods. Pepperoni seepage is fucking grease.

And while IÂ’m at it, all that other shit people put on pizza is way out of line too. Ham? Pineapple? Meatballs? Is it really necessary to bombard your palette with cured salted pork products on a pizza? I think it stems from people not knowing any better. Most pizza places use cheap cheese, which melts funny and tastes like plastic. If you start with good ingredients a very simple pizza is incredibly good. The dough should be light and airy, not heavy. Tomato sauce shouldnÂ’t be too spicy nor full of acid. The mozzarella should be of the best quality, preferably made that day. And on top, a very fine dusting of pecorino romano made from sheepÂ’s milk. ItÂ’s that simple. If I add anything at all, itÂ’s anchovies. Now thatÂ’s a pizza you can swill wine with. Garden variety, take out pizza? I can and do eat it, but I donÂ’t think of it as pizza. I wolf it down in great quantities and swill plenty of beer (lager) to wash it down. IÂ’m a practical man and itÂ’s a phone call away.

With Chinese food I like beer, but hereÂ’s a tip for you. If you want to order wine with Chinese food you canÂ’t go wrong with a Gewurztraminer. A lot of people think thatÂ’s dated wisdom but it works extremely well. I could pair dishes in a Chinese restaurant but with everybody ordering different stuff itÂ’s a hopeless affair. This trick wonÂ’t work in China, but youÂ’ll have other, bigger problems if it comes to that. Such as getting authentic Chinese food down without vomiting. Trust me, itÂ’s not egg rolls and sweet and sour pork over there. WeÂ’re talking deep fried monkey lungs.

***Update***

So IÂ’ll explain the beer with pancakes thing, which has turned up in the comments.

When I was in the 10th grade I snuck some St. Pauli Girl beer out of my house and brought it to school. Yes, it was a dumb idea, but we drank like four of them on the bus and looked very cool doing it.

I came home from school and my old man says, “Where the hell are my St. Pauli Girls?”

And I say, I drank them with breakfast.

He then says, “Okay. You drank German beer with pancakes?” Because I was allowed a beer or two in my house, or a glass of wine, so long as it was with a meal and generally in front of them. They were not party-ers at all, but they appreciated old world style. Then he says,” No problem. Show me the empty bottles.”

He knew exactly what IÂ’d done and he knew I couldnÂ’t produce the empty bottles. I donÂ’t remember all the details but I was in a lot of trouble. However, I refused to come clean and admit defeat. So the next day, in front of him, I drank a St. Pauli Girl with my pancakes. It went on like this for some time, with he asking me if I was enjoying it, et. al.

In the end I was liking it.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:31 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
Post contains 807 words, total size 4 kb.