Meet Black Sunshine. He works for us.
In 2007, it’s one of the most odious things you can do to another human being: “Bluetooth” them. Nothing says “I’ve evolved into a futuristic cyborg prickface” like wearing one of those hands-free headset phone thingys, and then putting real life people on hold, like so…
Pretty rude, huh? Now how about putting 48,000 screaming baseball fans on hold? Regrettably, that’s exactly what Super Deluxe’s Matt Schuler did last night on the JumboTron at the Braves-Red Sox game. Fucking prick.
(nice dancing, Erlene)
Folks, I’ll be honest. A woman hasn’t had this kind of effect on me in a long time.
Long story short: our favorite Atlanta public access sex guru, Alexyss Tylor, stopped by the offices the other day (and let me be the first to say, those public access cameras don’t do her justice; she is one good-looking woman!). But before any of us could ask her about “large, Earth-shaking ejaculations” or “hitting the root,” she had us lined up like an Army of One Vagina, saluting her almighty Power.
Apparently, that was just the beginning. For me, at least. As I was trying to orchestrate the whole group photo thing, I think I blacked out. Because the last thing I remember is being drawn to Alexyss by some kind of Death Star-like tractor beam pull, and hearing the words, “SALUTE THE PUSSY!”
This is what my coworkers got on tape:
As a newbie to the Southland, I’ve tried my hardest to assimilate without putting my Yankee foot deep into my expletive-spewing mouth—’cause apparently that’s unladylike… or some shit like that. Surprisingly, it hasn’t always worked. In fact, I’ve already formed several opinions and prejudices about my new home in Atlanta, GA.
Biscuits = Good; Grits = Bad
Lauded as a Southern specialty, biscuits are, in fact, even more finger-lickin’ good when they’re not accompanied by a red bucket of chicken. And they’re delicious anytime—with breakfast, as a side dish or even as late night munchies. I’m still waiting on lab results to find out what’s in white gravy.
The same cannot be said of grits, which, as far as I can tell, are just a conduit for butter and/or cheese. Even the French wouldn’t eat this mushy, oddly textured paste. I would understand people digging this stuff if all Southerners were the toothless hillbillies seen in history books of yesteryear (and on The Simpsons), but this is the new South, people!
Moving Violations
The drivers in this fuckin’ town are insane—they offer no mercy to casual motorists, crossing streets (on those rare blocks where there are actual sidewalks) is like a game of Frogger, and I’m fairly certain they’re drunk most of the time. Oh yeah, there are no hand-free cell phone laws in Atlanta. Good luck, motherfucker.
Moreover, Atlanta has its own traffic rules, the most significant of which can be broken down into a simple formula and some mathematical values:
1. Atlanta Speed Limit = Posted Speed Limit + 15 mph
2. Points for hitting pedestrians = 1; points for hitting anyone on a scooter/Vespa = 5; points for hitting anyone on a Segway = 10.
The Hills Have Eyes
This is fuckin’ hill country. If you’re not going up a hill, you’re probably going down one. And chances are, you won’t see other motorists until they’re mere feet away from your front bumper. Pretty fun to drive on, otherwise. And good for walking to alleviate possible Biscuit Ass*.
Northern Charm Gone Bad
Generally, unless you’re comfortable with your local companion, you probably shouldn’t refer to their ethnicity and/or religion as “cracker-ass cracker.” I know, this is tempting after sipping on some fine Southern whiskey, but trust me on this one.
They keep me way too busy here at Super Deluxe to ever attend Miss Daisy’s Finishing School in my spare time (though perfecting a curtsy was part of my job orientation), so I look forward to more anthropological inquiries and interaction with the locals. Until then, I’ll be perfecting my peach cobbler recipe whilst jamming to Lil’ Wayne. That’s just how we do in the dirty dirty.
* Fat ass due to mass biscuit consumption.
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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