An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

No Comment

You guys are really super-doop good to me-- you know that?

You read-- you're loyal. You comment, some of you, and they're mostly insightful, interesting, engaging comments. Every now and then I'll get innocently flirted with, and that's always good for my ego. Sometimes you'll crack a joke, or reference an item in a column that's 200 posts ago, and that's pretty good for my ego, too. You're nice to me and respectful of each other, and you never ever whine that I'm not much for commenting on comments, probably because you know it's kind of a pet peeve of mine and that, if I have a comment that I feel requires one back, I'll leave one.

In short, you don't expect a lot of me and, in that respect, you're rather like my middle school math teachers. Except that I'm sure most of you shave regularly.

And there are a couple of you out there who stand up to me, calling me out on my rampant, AIDS-like hypocrisy, and I'm most grateful for those of you. (Not that I want all of you to start doing it, that would be a total suckfest.) Yesterday, Colleen was catching up on some of my blogs after returning from her vacation (I know that because, all of a sudden, seven comments showed up in my inbox on blogs from a week ago, not because I look through her mail and obsessively finger her kitchen utensils while she's at work) and she left a comment on a blog of mine about how much I hate my job-- a subject I touch on with frequency and aplomb. After reading my tautly-paragraphed whinings about my passive-aggressive chair and my boss that smells like farts, she responded with:

"'Boohoo, I'm one of the 90% of Americans who has a full-time job.'

Quit your bellyaching. And be grateful for your malodorous chair."

Oops. Was it something I said?

Of course, Colleen's right-- I'm a complete and utter crybaby because, no matter whether my office chair smells like fresh-baked croissants, industrial varnishing, or goat excrement, at least I have an office chair to befoul forty hours every week. Did it ever occur to me that under or un-employed individuals might take exception to a post about how much I hate work in a climate when 10.2% of Americans are unemployed? Yes-- the same way some of my pathetic, acne-ridden, hopelessly single readers might get turned off when I write schmoopie blooperings about my disgustingly adorable marriage, the same way my poor, unfortunate reader who tools around in a funkified, rusted out shell of a1987 Ford Festiva might get his panties in a barb when I complain about the fate to which I have been consigned-- a 2001 Chrysler PT Loser.

Here's the thing-- Colleen said something. She even managed to do it in a cute, hey-you're-a-jerk-but-it's-okay kind of way. In case you haven't realized, I can be pretty insensitive sometimes, I can run off at the mouth and I can alienate-- it has been known to happen. Hey-- I lost my best friend simply by opening my mouth. So, I know that.

I know.

And I don't want to lose any of you. I've lost too much in my life already. So, long story short, stick around. And open your mouths when you need to.

I still hate my job, of course-- that doesn't change a thing, and nothing changes.


  1. I wouldn't be able to read your blog if you loved your job. We would have nothing in common. Nothing what so ever.

  2. Yesterday while enjoying a pint at my local watering hole, in walks a guy, Nick, that is also a regular there...although we don't speak much as we have different political views that have gotten us into heated arguments in the past. We nod politely and leave it at that. I don't necessarily pick political arguments, but HE does. And I can't stand down from a good ol' debate.

    So yesterday he strolls in all coifed and dressed complete with tie and sweater vest. Joe, the batender says, "Nick! You're all dressed up!" To which Nick replies, "You hve to dress for success even when your shoveling shit in this job market."

    I suppose his desk chair must also smell of goat excretment. I'm sorry yours does...but secretly I wish I had put the stuff on his chair.

    Please complain with aplomb. It's good readings...

  3. Hey, keep complaing if you want to. Sure, a lot of unemployed people might not like your bellyaching, btu you know what? This is YOUR blog, and you're entitled to write about things that are relevant to YOU.

    A previously employed, now unemployed (by her own choice) individual.

  4. Hey, I hate my job too. And I think blogs are meant for posts about job-hating. If we didn't talk about it, we'd explode. I think that's what would happen anyhow.

  5. You'll never lose me, Mr. Apron. You know that. I even voted for you as featured blogger of the month on 20SB .

    And I did notice a few forks missing when I returned from vacation. Are you sure that wasn't you?

  6. What jobs and significant others have in common:

    When you don't have one, you're anxious and bitter and bored. When you do have one, you are compelled to whine about it.

    Don't you think?

  7. I bet now if someone googles "I don't obsessively finger her", your blog will show up. Be proud.

    That's the most insightful, interesting, and engaging comment I am going to come up with all day.


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