I am a forty-something male with a job and a mortgage and two kids and a wife. My wife is in school full time, my kids are easy-peasy (including my son, who is mildly autistic but we work on that every available minute and he's coming back to us, which is awesome enough to bring tears to my eyes) and the mortgage is in jeopardy and my job...
It's my job, see.
I am a 26 year veteran of various technologies, with a background primarily in telecommunications, but for the last ten years I have been a project manager, technology agnostic, and it's served me well, especially since Bernie Ebbers fucked up telecom for everybody.
Now I have this job. It's...boring. Here's the good/bad:
Good – work from home. This is critical – with my wife in school, I have pickup and drop off duties for my kids. I cannot commute to work like real people, because they need to get to and from the bus.
Bad – I am so goddamn bored I cannot stand it. The contract I am on has me listed as a “Senior Technology Project Manager.” I should have 3-5 projects with $30-50 million in value, a lot of stress, milestones missed and deadlines looming. I am, at this moment, performing “communication coordination”, meaning I call people and tell them what's happening in the project. Seriously. It's like giving a race car driver a go kart and saying “yeah, you drive, right?” Fuck.
Good – the people I work with are splendid. Really, the salt of the Earth, kindhearted, generous, funny, and thoroughly enjoyable.
Bad – I am used to people like this working FOR me, not WITH me. No challenge, none, and I need some challenge.
Good – I have a job when many don't. Enough said there.
Bad – I will make, if all goes well, $40,000 less this year than I did last year.
You've already heard me whine about the mortgage. No need to go there.
Now I, The vile giver of advice, am not seeking advice. It's obvious what I can and cannot do. I'm not a twenty-something early in my career seeking feedback to grow my future path into something better.
I'm just bored and stuck. Sigh. And whining. Again. Sigh-sigh. Did I mention the low paying aspect of this gig?
If I was seeking advice it would (and should) sound like this: “suck it up, goddammit, and stop your fucking whining. Need a Kleenex? Get your fucking game on and seek other employment that fits the niche you're in, and if it doesn't come...keep fucking looking. And shut the hell up.”
Which I am doing, see. Every day. Except the shut up part. Hard enough to find a job at all, and if I want a better one I'd best keep my nose clean, stay frosty and ready, and keep the current (boring, low-paying) fires burning well enough to keep the place warm, even if I can't pay the rent. I have time.
Meanwhile, I have had a few emails from Flysters stating they are worried about me. Imagine! The foul-mouthed, snide and cruel STC gets love letters of support from people! Hooray! They like me!
And to those few but incredibly appreciated fans who have said nice stuff to me, I need to say this to you: My little situation will either pass or not, but I am a crafty old cat, and while I may not have strong, sinewy paws like the young 'uns any more, and my fur may be going gray (well, mostly it already is, but...), I have far sharper claws than many, and two and a half decades of experience making blubbery ribbons of the flesh of those who vex me.
Cats always land on their feet, you know.
So bless all your big bouncy beautiful hearts for all the nice things you've said, and thanks for thinking of a loudmouthed old guy who has made a big deal out of what is really a little problem.
On to Dear Prudence. I might have something to say to them this week.
The originals can be found HERE.
Lonely Dad – Ay caramba, motherfucker. I mean, really. Recap: your wife died, three years go by, you work it alone with your child, until you hire a babysitter, and she's sizzling hot beyond all imaginable reason and let on she wants to spit-polish your prodigious perky pepperoni with her tonsils. And you are worried about this, 'cause, you know, she's a babysitter and you might have to rehire her if you break up. Right. Oh, actual bad news: She's got a boyfriend. Good news: She's said she's unhappy with him.
Goddammit, listen up: sorry abut your wife (I'd be a fucking wreck), but if you're writing this you're maybe mostly ready to move on. Problem is, you're a fucking retard and time is possibly short. Lemme un-retard-ify you:
Go get a quarter. Flip it. FLIP IT, GODDAMMIT.
Heads: Go fuck the ever-loving freaky hell right out of that girl. Do not stop until your junk is so swollen and red and sore you have to put goddamn Band-Aids on it. Up, down, sideways, backwards, in every orifice and on every reachable horizontal surface within a short walking distance, plus in the car, on the bus, in the grocery store, during the movies, and in the middle of the goddamn street - twice. After, you might want to rest for a bit, then go do it all over again until you end up hospitalized in ecstasy. Later, ask if she's leaving her boyfriend.
Regardless the answer, slam her backside into the mattress, put her ankles behind her head, and do it all over again and again and again and...
Tails? Go fuck the ever-loving freaky hell right out of that girl. Do not stop until your junk is so swollen and red and sore you have to put goddamn Band-Aids on it. Up, down, sideways, backwards, in every orifice and on every reachable horizontal surface within a short walking distance, plus in the car, on the bus, in the grocery store, during the movies, and in the middle of the goddamn street - twice. After, you might want to rest for a bit, then go do it all over again until you end up hospitalized in ecstasy . Later, ask if she's leaving her boyfriend.
If she answers “yes”, slam her backside into the mattress, put her ankles behind her head, and do it all over again and again and again. If she answers “no”...who fucking cares? Woo hoo! Flip that quarter again, baby!
And if you needed me to tell you that..oh, hell. It's Time to come back to life, dude. You need the practice. Meanwhile, we've all been out here waiting for you, wondering where you've been...
Frustrated – Once again, we encounter a misnomer. You should not think of yourself as “Frustrated”. That's the wrong name. Your name, from now on, is “Fucking Stupid Bitch.”
Dear Fucking Stupid Bitch - Recap.
You are preggo, which means all is right and aligned and perfect and pink and pretty in the universe. Your MIL is likewise preggo, with apparently means the rusty, squealing gates of flaming hell hath split asunder, loosing upon this very Earth the most ungodly and hellish scourge and sickness imaginable: a pregnant 44 year old. The beatific and incredible glory that is you and your unborn child – intended to light the way for the universe for a thousand generations – will be forever defiled by the presence of the spawn of bilious, vile Satan herself! To wit: this foul Horror will be unleashed upon your fair and glorious noble-born offspring at the same time!!!
Listen, Fucking Stupid Bitch - everything you know, and I mean all 7 or 8 things, could fit with room to spare inside the nucleus of a cell of some starch in a gobbet undigested kibble awash in the rectal mucous and bile amid a steaming pile of fetid dogshit. Nothing in this world gives you the right to claim honors over a goddamn pregnancy, regardless the “other” pregnant person's relation to you and despite your distaste for her. The very fact you mentioned you are “upset that she wants to have children now” is a prime and fine example of your incredibly vapid, senseless, brainless stupidity, and frankly, Fucking Stupid Bitch, I recommend that you get your fucking tubes tied after this baby, because there's a good chance your children will be every bit as stupid, senseless, and vapid as you, and we need fewer of those, not more.
BTW – My son turns 6 in a couple weeks, Fucking Stupid Bitch. And my beautiful, sexy, incredibly talented, outrageously funny, scary-smart wife turns 50 this July. Do the math, you mouth-breathing, uneducated, imbecilic, fuck-witted, Forrest Gump-ish, lame brained cretin. You are probably the same age as my oldest son, but if you were my daughter I'd call CPS and have the kids taken from you and force a court case to ensure the above mentioned sterilization procedure on you to protect the planet from infestation.
Thinking Globally, Acting Personally – wait just one second, Mr. Olbermann. I need to get my dictionary.
Recap: you are an English major – likely a fairly recent graduate – and you have a supernaturally massive ego that prevents you from understanding anything that cannot be argued over a tepid latte at a goddamn Starbucks. Also, you're a polished-crystal asshole. So, your pal got a job in a shitty country somewhere, and you believe the basis of global individual freedom and the very foundations of human rights and dignity are now suspect because you read somewhere that this is “a real bad thing.”
Bonus: you used the words “sterling” and “phalanx” and “kleptocracy” in generally correct context and in fine proportion to the tone of your letter. Very nice!
Now go fuck yourself. You aren't special, Peter Mark Roget. You're an inexperienced, over-educated fucking windbag with the lofty-but-asswipe ambitions of becoming something you can easily spell but cannot possibly ever grasp in human terms. Leave your goddamn friend alone – jobs are hard enough to find these days.
BTW – When you mentioned this other country's “kleptocracy and human rights abuses,” were you talking about the Bush administration? Just asking, because...oh, never mind.
You wouldn't understand.
Outwardly Normal – MONSTERS!!! YOU WANT TO MAKE MONSTERS!!! THEY'LL BREAK FREE OF THEIR BONDS WHEN THEY GET BIG ENOUGH, AND THEY'LL EAT EVERYTHING THAT MOVES!!!
Uh, no, not really, but please. Recap: you are polydactyl (a little nod to the previous LW who loves his thesaurus as much as I do!), meaning you had a few extra toes and an eleventh little finger-ette. Your excess phalangeal accoutrements were removed when you were but a year old. Now you want kids. They will likely also be born with polydactyly. You're worried about something...whatever, who knows. I don't know, what was that you're worried about?
Oh – right-o-licious. You're fine now, but your kids? They will BE FUCKING HORRIBLE MONSTERS THAT SUCK THE BRAINS OUT OF THE STEAMING CPORPSES OF THEIR RECENT KILL THROUGH THE EYE SOCKETS!!! Or something.
Not so fast there, Fists Full of Fingers.
Dude: I know this might be hard to grasp (you have enough fingers left to do it, though! Hehehe) but if you have a baby, and it has something, then...you have a baby with something. Fr'instance: If you have a baby with Downs Syndrome, you have...um, a baby with Downs Syndrome. Happens every day. So if you have a baby with two-eleventeen and a six-half extra little toesies and pinky fingers? Well? Fuck, man, there it is. Shouldn't be hard to find a doctor in your part of town who has some sharp clippers and suitable local or general anesthetic.
But to your point, what if you HAVE BABIES WITH TWELVE INCH, RAZOR-SHARP FANGS THAT CAN TEAR THROUGH HUMAN FLESH LIKE BUTTER!!! OH MY GOD, AND THEY LOVE THE TASTE OF THE BRAINS AND ENTRAILS THEY SLASH AND RIP FROM THEIR VICTIMS' STILL QUIVERING BODIES!!! AND...
Monsters. Hmm. Wait. Nah. Can't happen, dude. Too. Much. Stephen. King.
Go have babies. Good luck with that whole extra digits thing. And hey! When they're seven or so? Go get them a thesaurus!
What a mouthful. I'm at the bottom of page 5. I think Fox has it right with TL;DR.
Wonders await this weekend. Off I go. Cheers Flysters!