Alternate title: Why I should be banned from anything other than the ground level of Stan's house.

I know I've written about my past escapades at Stan's house before. Here's a new twist on an old topic. I'm assisting Stan with building a new deck in his back yard. By "assisting," I mean that I am manual labor. I unload lumber from trailers, and stack it in the backyard where I'm told. This is because I majored in graphics at Clemson, and my primary interests (other than booze, fireworks, and scantily-clad women) are literature, history, and religion (note: I am not religious, but religion fascinates me to no end, much like mirrors fascinate birds.) This does not lend itself towards making sure the deck is square, level, made of wood, or in the correct county.

My point is this: I leave the math to the others, and I do the grunt work. The beauty of my plan is this: My grunt work only lasts so long, whereas leveling and squaring figures shifts constantly. While they are adjusting numbers and deciding who went wrong where, I am drinking beer, contemplating world domination, and encouraging pregnant women to smoke.

After a long weekend of work, we finally got to the good part: laying down the actual decking. In my enthusiasm to get up there and fasten some 2 x 6's to the joists, I promptly fell off of the ladder on the top rung, launching myself backwards into space. I landed squarely on my pale white ass, hearing HL and Stan trying not to wet themselves with laughter. (Aside to HL and Stan: Thanks for making sure I was okay first, assholes.) Stan then told me I was going to be required to wear some type of safety harness whenever I was on the deck. I should probably point out that, unlike the first time I fell down the stairs at his house, I was completely sober this time. I apparently just am not fated to be more than 10 feet off of the ground in this particular area of the world.

Amuse me/console me with stories of your own clumsiness.

JT out.

What happens when rednecks get ahold of liquor, diesel fuel, and a pile of wood? Nothing intelligent, that's what. Sorry for the poor video quality, they were taken with my phone.

I've passed 100 posts. This one is #105, bitches.

Have a beer in my honor, because I'm going to.

JT out.

As I've posted before, I am in the process of buying a house with my friend Kyle. In order to relieve some stress off of myself and my bank account (or what I have that masquerades as a bank account, anyway. It's mostly filled with pocket lint, paperclips, and gumballs) I decided to liquidate some of my mutual funds. (Damnit, yet another sign that I'm growing up. I have mutual funds.) This has turned into a gigantic pain in my ass. My "advisor" at the company does not return phone calls in a timely manner. When he does call back, he always has a question that he forgot to ask last time. I give him an answer, he calls back a day later with another question. Long story short, I've been trying to liquidate these funds since early last week, and finally got the necessary forms to do it at 3:30 PM today. To illustrate what I'm dealing with, I am going to provide you, my loyal readers, with a transcript* of my conversation with his assistant today.

R: Good Afternoon, Company That Is Borderline Incompetent**, this is Rosalyn***, how may I help you?

JT: Rosalyn, I got your fax, but it looks like I'm missing the last page.

R: What is on the last page?

JT:It's information about a wire transfer, and at the bottom is says "page 5 of 6."

R:Oh, that's the last page. It was 7 pages including the cover sheet.

JT: I understand the part about adding the cover sheet. What I'm telling you is that I only got 6 pages total, and the last page says "page 5 of 6."

R: That's page 7.

JT(starting to get angry and less-than-professional): That is impossible. It distinctly says that is is 5 of 6, indicating that there should be a sixth page. Your cover sheet said there were 7 pages and I only got six. I AM MISSING THE LAST PAGE.

R:Well, I'm pretty sure that's it, but let me go pull those forms again to make sure. I'll call you right back.

JT: That's okay, I'll hold. I'm in a hurry and we're already behind.

(holds for a few minutes)

R:Well, there is another page, but it doesn't look like it's necessary.

JT:Would you mind faxing it anyway?

R:I'll fax it now.

JT:Great. I'll go stand by the fax machine.

It was all I could do to tell her that, according to basic math, 5 + 1 can never equal 7.

Also, that "unimportant" page turned out to be a list of what percentages in income tax certain states require you to withhold upon liquidating the funds. Nah, nothing important, just state laws. I mean, it's not like if you break a law you can get fined or financially audited or anything, right?

*This may not be entirely accurate, as I wasn't typing it out while we were on the phone, but it is not exaggerated.

**Actually, I think the company itself is a quality company, but this rep has lost my business forever.

***The names have been changed to protect the marginally retarded. Also, if she had an Indian name, it would be "Makes You Want to Gouge Your Eyes Out With a Wooden Spoon That is On Fire." I know it's a long name, but it's painfully accurate.

JT out.

I had a tire blow out on me two weekends ago. Unfortuantely, it happened while I was going uphill, so I had to keep driving along on the rim until I got to a level place. By the time this happened, it was ruined beyound salvation. My initial thought was filled with expletives, thinking it was going to cost me a prtty penny to fix this one. Then I thought about how much worse it could have been if I was on the interstate. You see, as soon as my front two tires hit the on-ramp, I become an entirely different driver. The foot drops, I surge forward, and you hear the sonic boom as I break the sound barrier.

I started calling around on Monday to get estimates. I was praying that when I showed up to have them take a look at the rim, they would say it could be repaired. Sure, I knew better, but my bank account and I were hoping. Negative, ghostwriter. Your flyby is denied. The pattern is full. I was told in no uncertain terms by three different shops that I needed a new rim. I called the dealership where I got my car in August, but they've changed from Mistubishi to Hyundai. The suggested I call the new Mitsubishi dealer down the road. The guy who I spoke with in their parts department made the customer service reps at my cable company look like MENSA candidates. He also wanted $275 for a new rim.

I decided to try salvage yards. I knew this might be a stretch since the car is an '06, but I figured it couldn't hurt. The guys at Weaver's Auto found me a rim, said it would be in in two days and they would only charge me $150. Hell yeah. Fast forward two days: I go to pick it up, open the box, and notice a glaring difference. The current rims on my car? 10 spokes, 5 lugs. This one? 5 spokes, 6 lugs. Not the same rim. Not even the same lug configuration, I couldn't make it fit if I wanted to. Jeff at Weaver's called the guy he got it from, who continued to insist that he had sent the right part, that there was only one type of rim that came on '06 Galants. Jeff, who is a nice guy until you piss him off, informed the guy that he was standing right beside my car, and he was pretty damn sure he could count, and then said some other things I won't repeat.

So, it's now been five days that I've been cruising around on this donut of a spare tire. The dealership, in addition to wanting twice as much as Weaver's, can't get a rim in for 3 days. Weaver's can't find another one, so I've had to resort to eBay. I found the right one, and with shipping added, it was $130, so I'm saving money. The problem is, it's coming from AZ, which is a 4 day shipping route for UPS. I had absolutely no idea that this could turn into such a long drawn out ordeal.

However, and I know I've been a long time coming to the point here, is that during my search online I gave my email address to a company that promised to do the searching for me and only charge a slight commission if they found the right part. Apparently, they sent out an email blast with my car info and email address to every damn salvage yard in the known universe. These people have continued to send me emails about parts for cars that I don't even own since last Tuesday.

Then, today I started getting emails with Harlem Globetrotters fan club information. I'm assuming that these two are related, because I'm pretty careful about giving out my email address. The sad part is, I'm kind of excited about getting these emails. Hopefully "Sweet Lou" Dunbar and the rest of them will show up in SC soon, whistling Sweet Georgia Brown. I would pay a decent bit of money to see them play.

Little know Globetrotters fact: Pope John Paul II was mad an honorary Globetrotter in 2000.

The last time I posted, I mentioned that I was getting ready to begin a four-day bender. At the time, that was a joke. Now it is a memory, or lack thereof. As all benders do, it started off with an evening of Mexican food and bowling. It was Anna's birthday, and we were celebrating my new job, so we may have started out a bit too quickly. It also didn't help much that the waiter did not understand a word of English, and was terribly forgetful. Or he maybe just hated us, I have no idea. We went from having zero pitchers of beer on our table to having four pitchers of beer on the table all at once. I just noticed that I made it sound like Anna and I were drinking alone. This was not the case, there were eight of us involved.

From there we went bowling, which is always fun when more beer is involved, and then to the Smokehouse to drink more beers. What they don't mention on their website is the awesome bar, the great live music, and the fact that I drink for next to nothing because I know the owners.

I couldn't seem to shake my headache on Friday, so I decided that more beer was in order to fix it. Needless to say, I am a creature of habit, and wound up at Goatfeathers. The most interesting part of the night, however, came when I met a guy who looked exactly like Willie Nelson. Or he did at that point in the evening, at least. He was also wearing a Ruger jacket, which is the make of my revolver, so I thought that ruled also.

Saturday night was the last house party at Kyle's house before he and I buy our house together, and I was feeling like a jackass, so I took fishsticks to put on the grill. The scariest part is that they didn't get brown or develop grill marks, they just got hot. It was kind of disgusting.

Last, but not least, The Nuggets, the band that somehow Brett and Shawn convinced me to sing for, performed the only original song we've written to date, entitled Mexican Sweater. We need more practice, and I suspect they need a new lead singer, since I'm not actually know for my vocal stylings. Apparently our next "gig" is at the last house party at my house in two weeks.

I know this was poorly written and jumped from subject to subject, but I felt the need to post today, and am brain dead from all of the training materials I had to go over on my first day at work.

Let me know how everyone else's weekend was in the comments section.

JT out.

Well, kids, your Uncle T found hisself another J-O-B. Just in time, too, since my last paycheck with Staples is tomorrow. I’ll miss the job, and the pay was great, but this one is promising as well. I’ll be selling software, consulting services, and training packages. Similar job, similar pay, more interesting products. Also, I get access to the training packages for almost nothing, so I can educate myself while earning a living.

I’m relieved, and I don’t start until Monday, so we all know what that means. Four day bender of booze, video games, and sleeping. I’m also going to start the process of re-growing my beard in preparation for St. Patty’s Day. Then, for good measure, I’ll throw in a little more booze.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who listened to me bitch about the job search. That’s all over, so I can focus on getting ready to move into a new house that, incidentally, is about 2 miles from my new office, so that worked out pretty well.

It’s slightly after noon, so I’m going to go out and buy a new ink cartridge and some printer paper so I can print out and fax in my offer letter…then I’m going to begin drinking. Hooray!

*Sorry for stealing the phonetic alphabet thing, CDP. It was too good to pass up, much like free beer.

My feet hurt. Badly. I had the absolute longest interview of my life today. It started at 11:30 AM, and lasted until 7:00 PM. I was told I would be spending time with one of the assistant managers learning the sales method and product offerings. (Yes, after talking about getting out of sales, I am, of course, interviewing for more sales jobs, but at least this one is a sales management position.) What they didn’t tell me was that we would actually be going on sales calls. No big deal, I’ve got a bit of experience making sales calls. However, the guy I was with likes to park in a central location and walk the entire day. I applaud him for not wasting precious fossil fuels, getting exercise, and taking advantage of the awesome weather we had today.

I want to stab him because no one told me, and I spent the entire day walking in dress shoes that are not designed for walking that much. My feet have never hurt this badly before in my life, including the day that I got an exact replica of the Sistine Chapel tattooed on the bottom of them, and then immediately ran a marathon. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, really, it’s a lousy replica of the Sistine Chapel. But hey, it’s on feet, so what do you expect?

I’m also a bit pissed off, because I always ask, before I agree to go on an interview, if the position is salary plus commission, or 100% commission. I don’t go on any interviews for commission-only positions. I refuse to, I’ve done it before, and was mildly successful, but it was too stressful. Imagine my surprise when, after seven and a half hours (not to mention the time I spent on the first interview) I was told that the pay was based “entirely on performance.” Anyone want to guess what that means? One hundred percent commission. When I brought up the fact that I had been told, quite specifically, that his job had a base salary, they explained they had meant the “training bonus” of $75 a day for four days. Wow. A base salary of $300 a year. Where the hell do I sign? Do I also get a swift kick in the nuts for a holiday bonus? Perhaps a jab to the kidneys when I request vacation time? Will I be working in a basement with Asian children making Nikes?

I don't mean to sound bitter. In fact, I believe that there is money to be made working for this company. I just will not accept any commission-only jobs, and I feel that today was a colossal waste of my time that could have been better spent filling out more applications, or even just watching cartoons, getting drunk, and prank calling government offices.

Ah well, tomorrow is another day, filled with more interviews, and some minor car repairs. Still, my life rocks. All I ask for is a roof over my head and some beer money, and I still got it, baby.

Let me know what the hell you're all up to, and who wants to join me in getting absolutely, retardedly plastered this weekend so I can forget my foot pain, and the last 7.5 hours of my life.

JT out.

...and A-Boom-Boom!

Just wanted to update everyone on the job hunt situation. First off, thank you to everyone who is sending leads my way. That saves me from doing any actual work and frees up my time to play video games, drink beer, and cause general debauchery and mayhem. In fact, it’s now almost 3:00 AM, and do you know what I’m doing? Three strippers at the same time! No, in all actuality, I’m online filling out job application after job application. My eyes are burning and my brain is going numb from filling out endless questionnaires. I’ve started applying for crazy jobs just for kicks. I just got done filling out an intensive survey for a mid-level manager at Chuck E. Cheese. Why? To relieve my sanity.

But lest you start thinking it’s all glamorous “filling out online applications” and jet-setting “painstakingly rereading each cover letter,” let me assure you, it’s not. I’m still involved in the everyday drudgery of going to happy hour, wasting my time playing video games, and hanging out with my dogs (black labs, not to be confused with the slang term for friends. I’m not that hip. Also I have no friends, other than Skippy The Wonder Squirrel, my imaginary friend.) And, as always, I find time to take my horse tranqs and murder hobos, although I’m running out of places to hide the bodies.

I’m going to sleep now, leave me something upbeat and humorous in the comments section, or mail me cash. Either way.

***Update: I have 3 interviews lined up for Friday. Two I'm extremely excited about, one is meh, but the pay is pretty good. Think happy thoughts for me tomorrow at 9:00, noon, and 2:30 EST!

***Update 2: Of the 3 interviews I had on Friday, I've been asked back for follow-ups on two of them. I also have a new interview scheduled for Wednesday. Damn, it feel good to be a gangsta.

So, the CDP turns 25 today (not the blog, the man behind the curtain). It got me to thinking, since I'm a couple of years ahead of him, about my life and my age (which I know I've been focusing on a lot these days. My apologies.) It's time for me to do something different, to take another direction. I don't know what it is yet, but I know it's time for a career shift.

I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but this certainly isn't it. Don't get me wrong, my job isn't that bad. It's just not what I want to do. The point is, we all had dreams of greatness growing up. Some of us wanted to be rock stars, pro athletes, astronauts, superheroes, or firemen. Most of us wound up in a cubicle, willing to kill (or at least maim) for an office with a window. I consider myself fairly lucky. While I do occupy cubicle space, I'm in outside sales, so I get a decent bit of freedom. I'm expected to be away from my desk most of the time. However, I still have that digital leash we so fondly call a cell phone. It's not a bad job, and the pay is pretty good. Also, as far as co-workers go, my managers are awesome (and this is the first time I can honestly say that,) and my colleagues kind of rawk too.

However, I've been dissatisfied lately, and I just found out yesterday that my position is being eliminated in two weeks. They have decided that my territory is too small for two sales reps to work, and I'm the new guy. I can honestly say I'll miss the people I've worked with, and will try hard to stay in touch with a few of them. On the one hand, this couldn't have come at a worse time with me trying to buy a new house. On the other hand, I'm blessed to have some money set aside that I can live off of while I look for something else, and I'm still on the current payroll for two weeks. Don't expect me to set any sales records...or to actually even call on any customers. No, I'm going to use it as a paid vacation. And by "vacation," I mean running my white ass all over town dropping off resumes and filling out online applications. While it's sorely tempting to stay the course and apply for more positions in sales (I'm thinking doggy or reverse-cowgirl,) I'm also going to attempt to branch out into other areas. Hell, I majored in graphics at Clemson, I waited tables and mixed drinks for a few years, and I've been told I have great people skills. Add all of this up, and what is the logical conclusion? I think it's obvious. I'm going to be a samurai.

Actually, I'm toying with the idea of going back into some type of graphics field. We'll see. I truly have no idea where this will take me, but I'm optimistic. I knew deep down that it was time for a change, and my hand is being forced. Sounds like fate to me. As long as I don't wind up giving handjobs for five dollars in the men's room at the bus station, I think I'll be okay.

If you have any helpful suggestions, know any wealthy, lonely elderly women, or just want to poke me with a sharp stick, let me know in the comments section.