I know I was very thankful to Super Deluxe in my last blog, but things have really changed since we launched. First off, I didn’t realize that people who don’t work for Super Deluxe would be able to see our Web site. What’s the point in that!? Secondly, there’s been an awful lot of talk last week about a launch party that everyone went to last Saturday. I couldn’t believe it because, well… I wasn’t invited.
As they say on the Intertext, “WTF!?”
I mean, isn’t it bad enough that I didn’t get invited to any Christmas parties? Isn’t it bad enough that no one seems to care that my half-birthday is next week? Isn’t it bad enough that nobody ever told me I don’t have to pay for the bagels on Friday? Isn’t it bad enough that I share an office with someone who eats black beans just to spite me? And, isn’t it bad enough that that son of a bitch Henderson is trying to kill me?
See, everyone showed up on Monday with big bags under their eyes and hickeys. A couple people were limping, most of the design department looked like they had spent a day in jail, that son of a bitch Henderson was still wearing a lampshade—and one lady kept throwing up all morning and telling this one programmer that “it was probably a mistake” and that they should just act normally.
So, I started asking around, trying to figure out what had happened and why everyone was smiling but avoiding bright light. Most everyone scoffed or denied that anything had happened, and one guy from editorial even snapped his fingers and said, “You got served!” I don’t even know what that means.
I went on to Super Deluxe and read the blogs posted by someone calling himself “El Douche A.” At first I thought we had been hacked because I looked on our extension list, and we don’t even have anyone by that name working here. Then, I looked at the list again and realized my title on it read: “Raging Pantload.” Since there were links and references to photographs in the blogs, I followed them and found dozens of photographs of my coworkers drinking, laughing, necking, frolicking, and doing something that I’m told is called “tea-bagging.”
I was really quite offended and upset. What have I done to deserve such treatment? My boss keeps telling Human Resources to “fix the glitch,” and someone keeps putting mayonnaise on my keyboard. Most of my coworkers won’t even make eye contact with me—and that son of a bitch Henderson has tried to push me down the stairs more than once. Is it too much to ask to be invited to company parties or, at the very least, to some meetings? I mean, I’m a pretty awesome dude (as far as acquired tastes go). I have interesting opinions, I shower often, I use action figures as bookends, and I’ve been thinking outside of the box for about six weeks now.
Damn it, I’m tired of being the only one in the building who doesn’t stagger into work at noon, all bruised and knocked-up and reeking of Boones Farm and Bengay. So, please, Super Deluxe, recognize the three or four positive qualities I possess and invite to me future company functions.
P.S. Bastards.
A few months ago, I was out of work and full of shit. I had just finished an eight-month stint of calling myself a producer at parties and found myself staring into a dark tunnel of occupational uncertainty. My master plan of drinking alone and talking to myself had failed to yield any prospects.
After falling off of a bicycle, I decided to proclaim myself a graphic artist and move to Portland. It only took a few weeks and twice as many drinks before I realized my new goal in life had about as much chance of producing favorable results as being an art major or hitting on a waitress. I decided instead to hyperventilate. After all, I had just turned 32 and the only thing I saw happening down my road was the possible fruition of a Ouija board’s prediction that I would die when I was 32.
Suddenly, my phone rang. Now, I typically don’t answer my phone because I’m a prick. I also don’t like to return calls because that’s exactly what they’d expect me to do. In fact, the only reason I have a phone is on the off chance that it may occasionally lead to sex.
I ignored my mood and answered the phone. It was a friend I’ve known since we met. He wanted to know if I had grown up and officially told my hopes and dreams to fuck off yet. I told him I had and that I had also switched from large shirts to medium. He went on to remind me that I am one of the funniest and most creative people in the universe and that I should think about a job that wouldn’t require me to utilize either of those traits.
He went on to describe a broadband comedy network called Super Deluxe that Turner was going to launch from Atlanta the day after his birthday and that he would really like some new video games. I mentioned that his birthday probably wasn’t a key factor in the site’s launch and that he should stop dropping hints; I wasn’t going to get him anything. The job was called “Content Production Manager Extreme,” which meant that I would be able to determine what most of the drawers in my desk would be used for. He asked me if I was interested.
The thought of returning to my hometown of Atlanta was almost as deflating as the awareness that I would have to move back in with my parents temporarily. I shrugged these thoughts off and decided to focus on the fact that, thankfully, the job wasn’t in Alabama. Mere days later, I flew to Atlanta to wait for the corporate machine to sort through a few other applications. I sat in my parents’ basement and watched as time slowly passed. Finally, by mid-October, the powers that be offered me the job, mentioning strange, new concepts such as “benefits” and “job satisfaction.”
Starting work right away, I promptly kicked someone out of his office and started throwing my weight around. It took three days before the power absolutely corrupted me, and they demoted me, stripping the word extreme from my title. It was another four days before they asked to turn in my keys to the executive stapler. Finally, I settled down and settled in, which I’m told is exactly the sort of thing a 32-year-old man should do.
So, I’ve successfully managed to burrow myself here into Super Deluxe. Contrary to the impression I get, I am sure both my opinions and I are respected and appreciated. Thanks to me, dry-erase boards around the office are up by 67 percent, morale is down, and mandatory sensitivity seminars are up. Not to mention my “Spreadsheet of the Day” is a huge hit. My saving grace is that no one really understands what I do enough to realize I’m not doing it very well.
Still, I have to admit that Super Deluxe would probably have turned out just fine if I hadn’t come along, but if Super Deluxe hadn’t come along, I’d probably be wandering the streets of Portland, drinking rubbing alcohol, and having sex with parking meters, with nothing but the medium-sized shirt on my back.
So, thank you, Super Deluxe.
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