Stop Trying to Hire Everyone

A note to Greenpeace and Green Corps:

Will you please stop flooding every single job search site I encounter with your amazingly irritating job advertisements. What makes it worse than a simply a dull pain in my neck, scrolling through endless banal job openings you are apparently offering, is that I have applied to both of your organizations before and was somehow deemed unfit despite this seemingly bottomless well of employment you offer. All you are doing by running through staff at this alarming rate is informing the general public of your inability to satisfy your employees, further decreasing the chances of me, or anyone else for that matter, applying for one of your positions.

Got it? Thanks. And good luck with this week's soon-to-be-not-so-eager recruits.

Bobby Jindal? More Like Bobby JindSUCKS

This one is going to be really boring, but if elected officials are going to act like children with poop in their pants, then so will I.

I hate Bobby Jindal.

Not only is he a complete moron for several reasons, but he is also a disrespectful, unpatriotic (I said it, jackass, unpatriotic) megalomaniac. Here's why:

1) He refused nearly $100 million from the federal government for unemployment benefits. This is the governor of a relatively poor state, Louisiana, which is still reeling from post Katrina destruction. There are thousands of people and families struggling to survive in Louisiana who would surely love some help....say...$100 million given to Louisiana by Obama. Jindal looked a gift horse in the mouth, saw its teeth were fine, and sent it back to the White House.

2) His middle name is Bin. Bobby Bin Jindal. Like, Osama bin Laden. I smell terrorism all over this "Bobby" character.

3) He has openly declared that he hopes federal economic plans fail. Jindal has said that he wants America's economy to spiral into a nearly apocalyptic state. It takes a real jackass to wish for our country to flounder, for the entire world to flounder, for 4 years. He doesn't want me to get a job, he wants the personal investments my retired parents have made to evaporate, he wants unemployment to rise to, oh, 100%, he wants our federal deficit to grow into a behemoth uncontrollable even by the omnipotent hands of Dwight Howard. He wants to do this so he can run for president on a campaign of failed democratic rule. He wants to inherit a political economy even worse than that Obama has had to deal with. He is an incompetent fool who, if our economy doesn't get better in the next 4 years, would ensure the demise of our country, our world.

4) He like Applebees. He really does. The neighborhood grill, spinach artichoke dip, maroon and green chatchkies.

The conservative party has fallen to a despicable low equal to that of the preschooler who wets himself during story time. We're all getting cozy, ready to hear about the amazing story of a caterpillar's metamorphosis into a magnificent butterfly, and this jerk has the audacity to piss his pants. It wreaks of urine. He is uncomfortable and sticky. We are becoming nauseated from the retched odor. Jindal is ruining our story time, he's ruining our attempts, our hopes for better times in the near future. Why does he do this? Because he likes the smell of his own urine. When we go to recess, I'm gonna throw sand in his eyes and spread rumors that he has herpes, what any honest pre-schooler would do.

How Easily We Become Dissatisfied

I had a handful of errands to run for my sister yesterday.  A suit to the dry cleaner, an oil change, some painting, toilet paper restocking, you know, the usual.  I decided that I would take this opportunity to expense a lunch break at Chipotle on the funds she gave me to complete these tasks.  I recounted this burrito experience to a friend of mine over a coffee in an extremely awkward cafe attached to the Chicago History Museum (a museum featuring uninspiring displays of Chicago's past).  I told a story of unparalleled fulfillment.  

For just $1 more than a $5 footlong from subway, I was able to buy an object that not only tasted infinitely better but got me much more full.  Bang for my buck.  Upon completing the burrito, I recounted, I approached the world outside the metallic shop with newly hazy eyes, and decreased agility.  In my post-burrito state, I wouldn't have felt a bullet rip through my shoulder.  I wouldn't have realized that two cars collided, pinning me at my knees, if it hadn't been for the nurse at the hospital informing me of the financial ruin I was about to face due to my lack of insurance.  With this new mental state, I took on the remainder of my errands, unbelievably lucky to have not fatally injured myself in the process.

My friend, however, told me a story of lunches past, when Chipotle burritos were even bigger than they are now, when the post-comida coma was even more intense and socially hazardous.  At first, I looked at her in awe, wishing that I could remember these burritos of mythical size, big enough to carry a small squad of Greek soldiers into the gates of Troy where they would unleash a military thrashing the tale of which would survive millennia.  The I realized, I had eaten that gargantuan burrito as well, it was the first Chipotle burrito I had ever eaten.  We have all, in fact, eaten a burrito from Chipotle, "when they were, like, so much bigger than the are now".  

Here's how I see it.  The first time an individual goes to Chipotle, they are stunned and overwhelmed by the magnificence of the burrito in front of them.  Their stomach is confronted with a task that ordinarily happens only on Thanksgiving or at an E. coli laden buffet.  Upon devouring that first Chipotle burrito, the individual has imprinted a permanent message on his or her stomach.  From that point on, when their eyes see a Chipotle sign, their stomach grows and grumbles in preparation for the challenge.  This is why Chipotle burritos have gotten "smaller", this is also why Subway just doesn't match up to the challenge.  You see, I have to pass by Chipotle when I go to Subway, so while I would ordinarily be totally satisfied with a foot long of anything lining my arteries with sludge, Chipotle had gotten my stomach's hopes up.  I was ready for a 2-hour episode of 24, and was left with a normal 1-hour episode, leaving me hungry for much much more.

The Luck of the Irish

Introduction and Background
I've never been sure, really, about the origins of this phrase, "the luck of the Irish." I've heard stories of Irish perseverance and survival during times of catastrophic potato-based tragedies and enviable wealth from otherwise haphazard mining. There's also the possibility of facetious roots stemming from the centuries old battles between Protestants and Catholics, and the Irish Republic south and Queen owned north. Regardless, one thing is for sure, the luck of the Irish does not extend its hand of marshmallow fortune trinkets to men of Mediterranean decent while celebrating commercialized Irish holidays. I was not lucky yesterday, my friends. In fact, I was statistically quite possibly the most unlucky man in the whole of the Chicagoland area, and here is my story.

Pregame Play by Play
St. Patrick's Day weekend (despite not actually containing within it the Day of St. Patrick) is a magnificent time of celebration in Chicago. I did my part in contributing to the day's debauchery. I started out with a big breakfast of American cheese on eggs with hash browns, and toast, and my friend's hash browns, and most of her toast (she ate the crusts). I then began my Lord of the Rings-esque journey through the city's west side with green apparel on my back, green accessories ornamenting my dome, and satchel of hardtack for sustenance as I fight the legion of Orcs. I drank countless cheap beers and genuinely enjoyed the company of a handful of friends for several hours. Went to the park, went to a couple bars, you know, the usual. Then, like a gem falling from the emerald sky, I met a lass that I hoped would bring out the luck in my Irish spirit.

Let Failure Ring
My friend's girlfriend's sister came and met up with us at a bar and brought her hair stylist. This hair stylist, let's call her Chloe (the most common female Irish name in 1999, not that she's even Irish, but whatever). I asked to buy her a drink. Rather than getting a PBR for $2 like the rest of us, she wanted a whisky and ginger ale. I made the mistake of asking her what kind of whiskey, and of course she wanted Jameson (this cost me $7). After attempting to flirt with her for a couple of hours, she asked me if I wanted to go across town to see the Black Lips with her. I was hesitant at first. This would require quite a bit of money and quite a bit of time for questionable results. Consultation with the friends I was with convinced me to go along for the ride.

Half way to the bus, Chloe's friend calls and informs her that the show is sold out, thus ruining our plans, but saving me $15 or so. Chloe then tells me that all is well, and that she has a bottle of whisky at home and we can just hang out. I've never been asked to hang out over a bottle of whisky by a slight minx in my life. By my mental social math, I deduced that I was on the right track. Right?

So we go to her apartment. She lives alone. I make us some drinks. I drink my whisky with 7-up, she has hers with ice which is both intimidating but also quite likely the most attractive thing a small unassuming woman can do to win my heart (pretty much the exact opposite of what my mother would like to hear, but she doesn't know how to use computers, so I'm not very worried about this tendency getting back to her). An hour goes by. She laughs at my jokes, casually runs into me a couple times as we walk around the small apartment. Insists on sitting on that spot on the couch which forces the other person (me in this case) to sit right next to her. My torn jeans right up next to her green spandex (she was wearing orange spandex, but changed into the green ones right in front of me for festive purposes).

Things sound ok, right? She gets a phone call and proceeds to flirt in a way that puts any game I may drunkenly think I have to shame. When the conversation was over, I mention how well the phone call seemed to have gone. She informs me that the GIRL on the other end is SO CUTE, and goes on to say how she totally thinks she has a chance with her. My testicles then gathered their things and proceeded to ascend back into my body. I waited about 5 minutes before I asked her if she was a lesbian, so as to not raise suspicion. She claimed to, in fact, be totally into women, not men, not boys, not anything that I am, but women, girls, people with mammary glands, people with ovaries, people with bangs. I continued flirting with her for a few more minutes before asking if there was any point in flirting with her at all, at which point she unambiguously went to the other side of the room and told me I had absolutely no chance of accomplishing anything close to the teenage fantasy my mind had knotted together over the previous several hours.

Statistical Analysis of Leprechaun Trickery and Lesbian Audacity
Rather than leave right away, I hung around for a bit, then excused myself claiming to be exhausted due to the hours of drinking I had endured during the day. They say 10% of the human population is gay. I'll go ahead and say that 10% of women are extremely attractive. I'll further assume, for the sake of statistics, that about half the time, I can tell if a woman is gay after talking to her for a few minutes. I will further assume that about 2% of the women in this country are willing to invite me to their apartments to consume whisky upon first meeting me. With all of this in mind, what happened list night was a 1 in 500 sort of thing.

There were 499 ways for last night to have ended a different way, but of course, with the luck of the Irish, I managed to secure for my resume the experiencing of the most awkward uncomfortable form of going home alone and insecure possible.

I was bamboozled by a lesbian leprechaun last night, and for this I will never trust the trickery of the Irish or the miserably adorable winks of hair stylists.

Conclusion
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, can't blame a guy for trying.

Triple M* Goes Global!

We here at My Massive Minutia are ecstatic to greet our new international friend. Thanks to the terrifying specificity of google's website tracking program I have now been informed that my miserable blog has ventured offshore to the Middle Eastern Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. This new fan from Riyadh somehow spent absolutely NO time on the website.

I know 2 people that may be in Saudi Arabia right now. If you're one of them, shame on you for closing my blog quicker than a pop-up ad for an unsavory product, but hey, send me a fb message, I'd like to catch up. If you are not one of them, thank you for expanding the geographic grasp of Triple M and I promise you that I will make absolutely no additional effort to focus on issues you may rather read about than the numbing material I have chosen to take a liking to.

*No one ever, under any circumstances, has spoken about the existence of this blog in public. If, for a moment, we pretend that a bunch of people DO actually visit this site, which is totally untrue, they may rather use a nickname for the site. Maybe something like Triple M. I'd say 3M, but that's already a massive publicly traded company, and I don't want to add to stock market volatility due to mass confusion of identity.

Live Blog: Waiting for the GE Repairman

As I have written in the past, I absolutely hate live blogs. They tend to be revolved around subjects or events that I, myself, can watch/experience simultaneously as the live blogger. Hence, with my ability to consider my opinions about such issues, and with the extensive analysis that typically follows such events, I find live blogs to be a complete waste of time. I never, however, considered the possible sanity issues involved in live blogging. If the live blogger were not blogging, would he/she simply go completely nuts? And this is why I will now live blog as I wait for the General Electric repairman to come over and attempt (for a second time) to fix my sister's dishwasher.

8:00 a.m. - Alarm goes off. I hit snooze.

8:06 a.m. - Alarm goes off. I hit snooze again.

8:12 a.m. - Alarm goes off. I hit snooze, but then role out of bed because my alarm clock only allows me to hit snooze twice before disabling the entire alarm function. The first and only time I tried hitting the alarm for a third time, I accidentally slept in a couple more hours. Luckily, I had not events planned for mentioned morning.

8:15 a.m. - Make oatmeal and coffee. I like my oatmeal made on the stove top. Half milk, half water, sliced banana, no sugar, no salt. I never understood people that put salt in their oatmeal. I understand the concept of needing to put salt in everything so as to "season" it, but I mean, c'mon, get off your high horse.

8:25 a.m. - Eat oatmeal and read the shockingly miserable news of the day. Not that any of the news outlets I typically consult over breakfast had especially terrifying news, but rather uninteresting news. The big story was a really cool looking U.S. Navy surveillance ship sailing into the Chinese economic zone. WW III? I highly doubt it.

8:55 a.m. - Chat via facebook with a woman I used to date who currently lives in Pre-Russia Soviet. I'm not sure which of the Stans she is in, but she's in one of them. Interesting back story here. While courting this woman during my undergraduate years, I was often derailed by her plans to hang out with another one of her female friends. It was always the same friend. Funny enough, a friend of mine was trying to court this friend that the girl I was trying to court kept on ditching me for. A conspiracy was then agreed upon. My friend and I were being used as decoys to prevent social judgement during this collegiate lesbian experimenting of the women in our lives. In retrospect, I doubt any of it was true. We were just less interesting than them.

9:10 a.m. - Wash dishes from breakfast. This was obviously done by hand since the dishwasher is broken. Have I mentioned that I'm waiting for the GE repairman to come fix the dishwasher? Yes, I am. I have to stay here between 8:00 a.m. till noon.

9:15 a.m. - Put wet clothes in the dryer. Last night I toyed with the washing machine for hours. Despite the washer's buzzer going off several times indicating a completed wash cycle, my sister's clothes remained in a pool of post-wash water. After hours of turning the dial in various directions (both clockwise, and counter clockwise - or anti-clockwise for those of you that choose to sound pretentious) I got the water the drain. I put the clothes (mostly sheets) in the dryer and turned the dial. It didn't turn on.

9:16 a.m. - I think about the consequences of asking the GE repairman to also take a look at the dryer. Will he charge me? Will it be some stupid problem that I should have been able to figure out? Is the door totally shut? Yeah, it's shut.

9:20 a.m. - I watch Heroes on my computer from nbc.com. I would have watched it last night, but it was on at the same time as 24. I would have recorded it last night on the box next to the TV that records TV shows, but I had to record 24 and you can only record one thing at once. I had to record 24 rather than watch it live, because my sister conveniently decided to eat dinner at 8:00 (the starting time of 24). She doesn't like the show, rather, she talks a lot while I watch the show. So I recorded it, and watched it after she was done eating. We watched Dancing With The Stars while she ate.

10:20 a.m. - I check my phone for the 5th time this morning to see if I've missed any calls for some reason. Despite my ringer being on really loudly, and having the phone with full reception sitting right next to me all morning, I decide it necessary to ensure no missed calls. Sure enough, I have missed no calls. Any unread texts in there? Nope. No unread texts. Time to check my e-mail for the 10th time.

10:21 a.m. - I check my e-mail for the 10th time of the morning. The previous 9 times were while doing other things I've already blogged about.

10:25 a.m. - I am awoken from a temporary catatonic stupor that has me staring out the hazy window to the west, toward the eventual sunset, by my phone ringing really loudly. It says restricted. I'm nervous. It's General Electric. The repairman will be here in 15 minutes.

10:25 a.m. - I tidy up. I take the paper goods out of the dishwasher so he doesn't think we're crazy. Since it's broken and we can't use it, we store paper towels, and dishtowels in the dishwasher. I'm not sure why, they were fine where they were before, and nothing has really taken their spots in their previous locations. Whatever.

10:33 a.m. - The door knocks. He's early. The repairman has arrived. I guess this means I'm done live blogging. Do you even care if he fixed the dishwasher?