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Posts Tagged ‘sandwich’

Me: I think I’d like a sandwich. 
Dog: Can I have one, too? 
Me: No. You have dog food. Why don’t you eat that like a normal dog. 
Cat: Yo, what up, beotches? Can a kitteh get some vittles up in here? 
Me: Dammit, I just fed you an hour ago. 
Cat: Yo, calm down, whiteboy. I just want a slice of that turkey. Is that turkey? That’s turkey, right? Can I get a slice? 
Me: Get off the counter! 
Dog: Hey, cat! Grab me a slice of that turkey! 
Me: Dammit! Get out of here, both of you! 
Cat: Oh, snap! That shit ain’t turkey! Homeboy got some thinly sliced chicken breast up in here! Holla! 
Dog: This is soooo not fair. I have to eat processed chunks of cornmeal and beef-flavored horse meat. I demand a decent meal – or at least a snack – every once in a while. You know how I like chicken, too. This is preposterous. 
Cat: So… I’m just gonna take this here piece of chicken and… 
Me: NO! GET DOWN! [picks up cat and throws him in the other room]. 
Cat: DAAAAMMMMMNNNNNN! 
Dog: You’re a real asshole, you know that? 
Me: This is MY food. I paid for it. With MY money. That I made. What the hell have you ever done to earn your keep around here? 
Dog: Oh, I don’t know. How ’bout not let burglars and murderers in the house? Ever think of that? 
Me: … 
Dog: That’s right. Remember that kid selling magazines the other day? Total burglar! I scared him away. 
Me: You just barked a lot because he’s black and you’re a flaming racist. 
Dog: Well… whatever. He might have been a burglar and you weren’t going to buy Golf Fancy Monthly anyway. Just give me some frickin’ turkey! 
Me: It’s chicken. 
Dog: WhatEVERRR. Damn. You’re a dick. 
Me: [Goes to the fridge to get the mayonnaise. Yes, I eat mayo.] EAT YOUR OWN DAMN FOOD. 
Cat: [secretly climbs his way back onto the counter and starts licking the chicken breast] Guess who’s back up in this mofo! Dayuummmm! This is some good-ass chicken! What is this, Boar’s Head? What, What! Hey, Dog, catch! [nudges a side of the sandwich into the gaping mouth of Dog.] 
Me: SONOFABITCH! Get out. NOW! [opens the back door. Cat & Dog laughing hysterically race outside. Dog is doing the moonwalk and the cat is thrusting his pelvis like he’s violently humping the air.] 
Cat: Yeah, booooyyyyyy! [singing] We gots the chicken. It be nice and tasty. I ate that chicken. Whiteboy be crazy. 
Dog: I’m gonna go pee on the lawn mower.

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Morning productivity

If there is one thing about being unemployed (or “freelancing”, as I call it) that I actually enjoy, it’s the waking up whenever my body darn well feels like it. I like opening my eyes and staring at the wall, trying to guess what time it is.

“8? 8:30?” [grabs phone] “Holy crap! 9:37! Sweet!”

I’m not a big sleeper-inner, so I’m usually up around 9:30. It doesn’t matter, though, because I have a few things that I force myself to do before noon – no matter what time I drag my groggy butt outta bed.

Coffee followed by some articles followed by some social media internetting followed by an intense application blitz followed by some fleeting thoughts about exercising followed by either the malljob or a sandwich with extra Doritos (on the sandwich, mind you). There also might be a nap in there somewhere. And maybe some more articles.

My sandwich shop

I make awesome sandwiches. I had one yesterday that I like to call The Cousin Larry™. If you’ve been reading my posts since the beginning, you know that I like to name my sandwich creations. One day I’m going to open a sandwich shop that will feature delicious sandwiches named after TV/movie characters. Most of them will be pretty obscure. It’s gonna be awesome. Just you wait. Anyway, The Cousin Larry™ doesn’t have pickles (most of my awesome creations do). It does, however, have Doritos intermingling between the salami and the lettuce. Fantabulous, if I do say so myself.

You know who eats salami? My dad. He eats bologna and salami with American cheese on wheat bread with KETCHUP. Every. Single. Day. In my shop, that sammich will be named The Carl Harrington™. Okay, so he’s not a TV character, but I’m pretty sure no one will buy it anyway. Except him. How awesome would that be to have your favorite sandwich named after you?

“Hi, I’d like a ME please. Extra ketchup.”

What I’ve got coming up

I’m speaking on a panel this Wednesday. About what? What else? Being unemployed! I’ll give a little presentation on how I’m using social media to network and create professional relationships with people who can put me on their payroll. Basically, I’ll be giving advice to unemployed people about how to use social media to their advantage. It should be interesting, since I haven’t done any public speaking in a very long time. Not to mention that I have no clue what I’m going to say. I should probably write some stuff down, huh? Apparently, I’m winning at unemployment if people want to hear me speak about my joblessness. Hey, I got a free lunch out of it. SO CHALK ANOTHER ONE UP IN THE WIN COLUMN, FELLAS!

I make unemployment look easy.

This is Day 124, folks. Just some Monday evening ramblings while the wifey is babysitting and making that real dolla-dolla. Still malljobbin’, still writing, still looking for more. Last night I had a dream we moved to Charlotte. Hoping that becomes a reality soon.

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You know what I miss most about my old job?

Lunch.

My former place of employment is located downtown, walking distance to any of the city’s finest midday eateries. Feel like a Reuben? There’s a spot for that. Bowl of chili? Spot for that. Burrito? Yup, spot for that. Beer? Yes. A couple of spots for that, too.

It was a great way to break up the day and get some socializing done while stuffing my face full of whatever can be served in a breadbowl. Just relaxing. Eating. Talking. Laughing.

There is no work to be done in a café, unless you’re toiling away at a tuna on rye. Don’t bring that report with you, Mr. Manager, you’re just going to spill that cup of clam chowder all over it. This isn’t a coffee shop, Trendy Office Hipster, put your laptop or book of ironic poems away and knuckle down on a vegan cheeseburger or some kind of $12 salad. Hey, Depressed Guy with the loosened tie and wrinkled shirt! I feel your pain, buddy. All of our jobs are in jeopardy. Let’s share this plate of extra cheesy nachos while we can still afford it.

Most of the patrons are dressed in their business-casual attire, the occasional executive with gaudy bow-tie, HR ladies with their power-suits and sensible walkin’ shoes. Office Hipster in a tight jacket even though it’s mid-July (as ironically) and messenger bag. Everyone’s just eating and drinking. Trying hard to talk about anything other than the serious bidnizz that awaits them when they get back to the office.

I miss lunch.

This is Day 90, folks. If any of my former coworkers want to get together for lunch, gimmie a call. I’m down for a Chicken Salad from Tony’s or a burger & beer from Cap. Ale.

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Dear Past Me:

Hey fatty! It’s me, You. You know, from the not-so-distant future? I bring tidings of employment and prosperity, as well as the iPhone 6G[q] with mobile holographic conferencing technology.

Remember when you were unemployed? Ha! What a loser you were with your depressing blogs and homemade haircuts and eating tuna from the can. It wasn’t even the solid white Albacore tuna! It was that gross fishy kind that tastes like cat food! What a tool. A stinky, unshaven tool.

Well guess what, tubbtubb! You eventually get a job! So stop your whining and put down that can of Purina.

Things are really frickin’ cool in the future. First of all, you have this redheaded kid named Stinky Joe. He’s kind of silly and uncoordinated. You should see the faces this little Lardo McGee makes when he tries to throw a baseball. All scrunched up like he’s constipated. Then he gets frustrated and stomps away, pouting. Hey, he’s got your genes, so don’t get your hopes up on him making any sort of athletic team. Sorry, but you’re not getting rich riding this kid’s coattails. Your lovely-as-ever wife has another one on the way, so maybe this one will be a little more, shall we say, profitable.

You live a modest house with a decent-sized back yard for cookouts, lounging and passing out when you get locked out for partying with the fellas too long when you have a pregnant wife at home.

You’re not driving anything fancy. The family vehicle is a hybrid Fiat Caravan with a built in digital video library of The Wiggles that Fatty Jr. blasts on full volume repeatedly during long trips to grandma’s underwater apartment (yeah, some people live in the ocean now). There’s enough room for the whole family, including your jerk dog.

That’s right, pudgy. Dog. As in the same pain in the butt you have now. Yes, he’s still around. Like I said, this is the not-so-distant future. Besides, with advances in veterinary medicine, he’s probably going to outlive us all just to spite us with his seizures and his couch-chewing.

Anyhoo, this letter wasn’t to tell you about all the cool stuff you have in the future, like a voice-controlled shower or a robot that makes sandwiches or a fridge that actually runs quietly and doesn’t sound like a freight train when it kicks on. Rather, I want you to be aware that your life – your, umm… situation – is going to change for the better. As a matter of fact, it’s going to get better for you very soon. I just wanted to let you know to be on the lookout for a great opportunity and to have the smarts to recognize it and the cojones to go for it – whatever it may be. I can’t tell you what it is because that’s kind of a no-no when you write letters to the past. You know, the whole space-time continuum thing. Really, all I need is for you to step on a bug and ruin all the important stuff I got going on right now.

So that’s it, chubbs. Future you is happy, so keep doing what you’re doing. You’re on the right path. Keep applying for jobs. Stay focused. Stay positive. Stay determined. Go for a run. You’re due for a heart attack in a few months. That’s one future event you can alter, space-time continuum be damned.

Your friend,

You

P.S. One day, an old lady with a bristly mustache will ask if you can help her carry some groceries from her car into her house. Say no. Dear God, just say no. So bristly, that mustache.

This is Day 82, folks. Heeding the words of future me. Looking for opportunities. Going to pounce on any promising chance that crosses my path. Really looking forward to owning a robot that’ll make me a sandwich.

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