SAY MY NAME!!

Heh!.. I drew this
I thought it was funny.
Therefore it is here.

First some strange news!

Hey kids! We screwed up… and you’re going to eat it. EAT IT ALL!

Well damn! I wish my elementary school had done a “traditional school lunch week”. But nooo! The best I got was what we unlovingly referred to as “roadkill pizza”. Rectangle slabs of cheese, pepperoni shavings, and sauce on top of crust that had a patterning beneath that strangely resembled tire treads.

By the way... can anyone tell me why the school lunch gravy always had that vague greenish tinge to it?

I’s in yo yard! Eatenz all ur dawgz!

I’ll have to admit that I laughed while reading this. By no means am I dog hater. Well except for Chihuahuas. I can’t stand the yappy little ankle nippers. They’re the physical embodiment of Napoleonic Syndrome. Anyway… Read through this and you’ll see many things that I laughed at. The majority of them are cases of human stupidity.

Large beastie stalking your pet for days and you do nothing…. STUPID

You find the big bastard in your pet’s bed and do nothing…. STUPID

Flinging plastic chairs at 110 lbs. of crushing death…. STUPID

Owning a tiny yapping rat of a dog…. STUPID (but that’s just my personal view there.)

But really, I do feel bad for that pup. Well actually only half of it. The terrier half. The other half can rot in Chihuahua hell for all I care.

I also feel bad for the kids that saw it happen. That’s going to screw them up for a while. What a really messed up way to see the beloved family pet go out. Although if you play it right it could be something absolutely bad ass! It’s all in the way you retell the story later on in life. A little embellishment here and there and next thing you know Mr. Scampers is a freaking hero sacrificing himself in order to defend you and your family from a rampaging python. Hells yes!

Adults are morons…..

I don’t have much to say on this one.

Parent = MORON

School Administrator = MORON

It mentions that the child’s choice in hairstyle was a distraction to his classmates. Well duh! They’re in kindergarten! Everything is a freaking distraction to little kids.

I really feel bad for this kid. All he wants to do is rock a Mohawk but all the adults around him are morons.

Sorry kid. Maybe if you wait till highschool where you’re under the delusion that you can do what you want. Fight the power, damn the man, blah blah blah….

I’ve just noticed that not too long ago I had made some sort of promise to deliver a movie “review” for every blog post. (WTF is up with that? I must have been drunk or something.) And it seems I have not been living up to that promise. To this all I have to say is, “Shut Up!.. in fact.. STFU!”.

Yes I still have no life. Yes I still watch at least one movie a night. Yes if I so felt like it I could write up some sort of review. But you know what? This is my damn blog. I will do what I want when I want. I’ll tell you what I want when I want. YOU’LL READ WHAT I WANT YOU TO READ! (A translation of that would be, “I was too lazy to type up a review.”)

It’s occurred to me that a number of people I have known for years believe me to be a Jr. (junior). Granted my name does have the suffix of “II” at the end of it. But this in no way makes me “junior”. I asked my father about that years ago and his reply was, “because I didn’t want people calling you Junior. I hate that. So I purposefully put a roman numeral 2 on your birth certificate.”. And to that I thank my father. I’ve known many a “Junior” who tend to dislike being called by that moniker. (By the way, if you ever want to piss my father off, call me Junior in front of him. It’s hilarious.)

It doesn’t really anger me when people refer to me as Junior, but I will correct them on the spot. What angers me is when they reply with, “yeah! That means Junior”.

No! No you dimwit! By no means does a roman numeral 2 mean Junior. It’s the 2^nd! THE 2^nd! Jr. means Junior! And I am not a junior because nowhere in my damn name does it say “jr.”! You’re fired! Clean off your desk, go home, and shoot yourself in the face!

And this brings us to my name in use at the workplace. It was brought to my attention a while back that people I’ve been working with closely for the past 6 years still don’t know my name. Please take a moment to look on the right side of the screen. There you should see my name. Yeah there you go… right there… under the “About Me” section. See it? That’s right, my name is Stanford. Just like the university, and just like my dad. (because I was named after him… duh.)

So for 6 years three particular coworkers insisted on calling me Stanley. To which I promptly verbally corrected them. I even gave them options other than my full formal first name. Six years of saying, “It’s Stanford. Just call me Stan,” every morning is pretty aggravating. One in particular would be a fellow sales rep who felt the need to announce my presence every time I passed by his office. In a shout he would call out “Stanley!”. He would even go so far as to put emphasis on the “ley” by pronouncing it in a higher shrill octave. It was a triple insult. Wrong name screamed in a shrill painful tone with an emphasis on the part of the name that makes it wrong. I was always torn between correcting him or running away before he could produce that obnoxious noise again.

After a while I decided to implement “Project: Say My Name!”. This project was designed to get my three coworkers acclimated to my actual name. It went a little something like this:

Stage1: Signing interoffice documents.

I began signing all interoffice documents and emails with my full name. (Complete with roman numeral 2 suffix.) It soon turned out that no one reads an email further than the body. They don’t care about your signature at the bottom.

Stage 2: Wear a name tag.

This one died the day it was implemented. Coworkers have an aversion to reading any text located on the body. This is due to fear of sexual harassment charges or having another coworker think that you harbor feelings for them. For the whole day people would refuse to look lower than my neck. A whole day of having people look me in the eyes when they talked. (And I swear if they had smiled at the same time I would have taken it as an act of aggression and probably attacked them.) It was a really bizarre feeling. I kept thinking, “I’m a guy! I don’t have breasts. It’s alright for you to look at my chest. I really don’t mind. I even wore a name tag welcoming you to look”. All in all at the end of the day I felt it was a failed attempt. (That and everyone’s refusal to look at anything other than my face made me feel very unattractive.)

Stage 3: Do unto others!

This one lasted a whopping 3 days. I spent three days responding to these three people by calling them by random names. It resulted in them thinking that I was crazy. (Which in itself has its benefits…. but not many.)

Stage 4: Resignation.

That’s right, I gave in. I’m sorry dad, but my new name is Stanley Junior. And I guess by default your name is Stanley Senior.

It’s easier this way. People will think what they want and call you what they want. Even if they’re wrong. There’s no use in correcting them because the wrong info has ingrained itself and will never fade. Your name will forever be Stanley.

Stage 5: (Work In Progress)

This stage is still in the planning process. It involves a lead pipe, bricks, and a bit of pain. I figure that it’ll be hard for someone to call you anything at all if they no longer posses the ability to form words. I just have to find a way to implement it without the police showing up. They tend to ruin everything… with their guns and batons……

I’ll be mulling this over while I eat my “traditional dinner” tonight.

Yes I drew this one too.