Christmas Videos Posted!

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Enjoy our Christmas themed videos:

The Jointcracker

and

You Shaved Your P*ssy Like a Christmas Tree For Me

Love Poem

Some time ago I wrote this poem. It's getting to be that time of year again when it's relevant.

Engulf me in your warm embrace,
You syrupy elixir of unconsciousness.
Lift me up so my lips touch your lips,
And my tongue can lick your numbing oblivion.

Ahh, NyQuil,
Heroine for the congested.

Take me away from the snot and the phlegm and the mucus.
Make me forget my upper respiratory system for just one night.

With you I am sluggish and disoriented,
In the mood for love.

I feel the penetration of your Doxylomine Succinate.
The Dextromethorphan Hydrobromide caresses me from the inside.
Yes, yes, Acetaminophen.
Pseudo - eph - edrine Hy - dro - chlor - ide
Don’t stop, don’t stop.
Until...

Don’t take it personally if I doze off.

So much more than a coughing, achy, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine,
You are a gift from a higher power.
Thank you Procter and Gamble.

Anger Management

This is a really funny story I can't vouch for it being true, but it's nice to think it is. When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered, saying "Hello." I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn Carter?" Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right f**in number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits. After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're an asshole!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'asshole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.

Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an asshole!" It always cheered me up. When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic "asshole calling" would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from Verizon.. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?" He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an asshole!"

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window which included his phone number, so I wrote down the number. A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had his number on speed dial) I thought that I'd better call the BMW asshole, too I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?" "Yes, it is", he said. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked. "Yes, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd , in Vaucluse. It's a yellow house, and the car's parked right out in front." "What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Don Hansen," he said. "When's a good time to catch you, Don?" "I'm home every evening after five." "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?" "Yes?" "Don, you're an asshole!" Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call.

Then I came up with an idea. I called Asshole #1. "Hello." "You're an asshole!" (But I didn't hang up.) "Are you still there?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. "Stop calling me," he screamed. "Make me," I said. "Who are you?" he asked. "My name is Don Hansen." "Yeah! Where do you live?" "Asshole, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd , Vaucluse, a yellow house, with my black Beamer parked in front." He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, asshole," and hung up. Then I called Asshole #2. "Hello?" he said. "Hello, asshole," I said. He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." You'll what?" I said. "I'll kick your ass," he exclaimed. I answered, "Well, asshole, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now." Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse. I quickly got into my car and headed over to Mowbray. I got there just in time to watch two assholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead police helicopter and a news crew. Now I feel much better.

Anger management really works...

A Look into My Psyche

I’m not one to put much into astrology, but I like to keep track of it, just to see how my life is supposed to be going. Here’s last week’s Pisces horoscope from Free Will Astrology

Everyone has about 1,500 dreams a year. Of those, maybe 1,420 are confusing, indecipherable, and can't be mined for valuable revelations about the inner workings of your psyche by even the most skilled dream interpreter. That leaves 80 intensely useful letters to your conscious self from your deep unconscious. Any one of them could break you out of self-defeating patterns and transform your life forever. This week there's an especially high likelihood that your nightly adventures will be beautiful teachings that are coherent enough to recall.

So, here’s what I dreamt last night:

A vampire was stalking me and the only way to kill it was to stab it through the heart with a hard boiled egg. We must have been at high altitude, because the water just would not boil and the best I could do was soft boiled eggs that so obviously could not pierce skin, much less the breast bone of a preternatural creature of the night, but, ironically, are much tastier than hard boiled eggs.

What does it all mean?

- CPW

My Mid-Term Election Hero

The mid-terms are over, and I feel fine. Not because the candidates I felt strongly about won their races. Not because Britney Spears and Kevin Federline are getting divorced. Not because I had a really good cup of coffee yesterday afternoon.

No, I feel fine because I was privy to some of the most honest election coverage I’ve ever seen.

Let’s be real, a newsroom has to be one of the most bustling, busy places during elections. So many races to cover, so many reporters to dispatch. There has to be an anchor that is the ringmaster of this political circus. And locally, on 6abc, that anchor was Jim Gardner, my mid-term election hero.

My Hero

Now, I only watched about ten to fifteen minutes of election coverage. I’m not a very political minded person, and I had ironing to do. But this wonderful man, Jim Gardner, made those few minutes as sweet as any leftover Halloween candy.

First act of heroism:

The station always sends a reporter to cover each of the candidates’ campaign headquarters. To cover each of the numerous candidates, they end up sending out these second rate reporters. People you’d normally never stick in front of a camera (or any ocular device for that matter): the third string meteorologist, the janitor, the editor’s mom, etc.

And if the reporters are bad, just imagine how far down the chain their film crews must be. "Great, here’s my spot to shine, and I get stuck with some dude whose qualifications are that he once taped his dog taking a poop."

Case in point, Miss Erin O’Hearn, covering the Fitzpatrick/Murphy race (Irish unite!). Cut to Erin (we’ll pretend we’re on a first name basis) at Murphy’s headquarters, where she is in a silent movie. Her lips move, but so sound whatsoever. My hero, Mr. Gardner (Mister, ‘cuz he’s the man) comes to her rescue, citing “sound difficulties”, and moves on to the next campaign headquarters.

But Erin would make a triumphant return, oh yes, coming out of a commercial break. This time, we can hear the gathered crowd behind her cheering for their candidate, but nothing she is saying into the microphone. How’s that work? This time, Mr. Gardner is a little slower to jump to her aid. Erin, speaking with all her might into a dead mic, is then interrupted by an increasingly irate Mr. Gardner, “Erin, Erin, still not… we’ll come back.” And he had to yell for her to hear him on her earpiece over the assembled crowd, which was, by the way, coming through crystal clear.

But Erin was back after the next break to complete this unholy trilogy. This time, her voice was a shadow underneath the hulking sound of the crowd, with Mr. Gardner imploring her to yell so she could be heard… and then the screen flickered for a moment and was then filled with a defeated Mr. Gardner, who deadpanned a lovely “…and now, we can’t even see her.” And he had this “you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me” look on his face. Priceless.

Get it together, woman!

Second act of heroism:

In the midst of a huge political shift, Mr. Gardner was then forced to deliver this breaking ‘news’:

“Britney Spears filed for divorce today from her husband, Kevin Federline. The two have been married since 2004 and have two sons together. And so, they… are… done.”

His delivery of that last line was FAN-TASTIC!

Such dichotomy in that sentence. An end not only to their marriage, but also their retardedly half-witted fame. Well done, sir!

Britney and K-Fed divorce? That’s not news, you douchebags. If you really care that much about two people you’ve never met (actually met and had a conversation with, not a sweaty palmed handshake and an effort to get them to sign your t-shirt), please do us all a favor and go jump in front of traffic.

But not on the Blue Route southbound. I have to get home in time to watch Mr. Gardner on the news.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

My Exciting Life

A coworker came up to me today and asked, "What'd you do this weekend?" and I honestly answered, "I had some really bland soup."

- CPW

Adventures in Traffic

As I’ve blogged before, I have a hellish commute to my job. And between that commute and my commute from work to Waitstaff rehearsal, I spend a fair share of my life on the road. Which would normally sound cool: “Yeah, I’m always on the road.” When in fact the road I’m referring to only encompasses about 40 miles. How sad.

But the road is never dull, never boring. (That last statement is covered in creamy sarcasm. I squoze it myself.)

Consequently, some very mundane occurrences I’ve taken in while on the road stick out in my mind, because, hey, there’s nothing else really happening. Now, in an effort to remove one of them from my psyche, I share it with you.

The Lighting Pole

On my way to a Waitstaff rehearsal, I got held up in a fairly formidable traffic jam. Turning on the news on the radio, I discovered during their traffic report that a light pole had fallen across the roadway going westbound. It was causing a gaper delay eastbound, the direction I was heading, but had effectively blocked all lanes going the other way. Which made me both happy and upset; happy that I wasn’t headed westbound and caught in that mess, and upset because I cannot STAND gaper delays.

Unless there’s a head rolling across traffic, I don’t understand why people have to gape at some dude who forgot to fill up as he stands on the side of the road on his cell phone. He’ll be fine. Now F*CKIN’ DRIVE!!!!

However, in this instance, as I inched closer to the “accident” site, I could see why people were slowing down to stare.

Not one, not two, but seven police cars were on the scene. Seven! You can’t even get that many when there’s been a drive-by! And I didn’t even mention the emergency vehicle, the maintenance truck, and the fire engine, did I? Well, now I did.

And behind this wall of flashing lights and buzzed haircuts sat the grumbling denizens of the westbound lane, frothing at the mouth, leaning on their horns, completely cut off from their road to freedom.

And there was the pole, lying on its side across the roadway, alone, light broken, scattered across the cold asphalt surrounded by machines and people. It was almost… sad.

But, that wasn’t what was fascinating to me about this cacophonous scene. This was not why I had turned into one of the things I hate most, a rubbernecker.

It was what the six men standing by the pole were doing:

Nothing.

They were gathered around it, staring at it. Looking at it like a football player looks at a tampon. Sure, they know what it is, they just don’t know what to do with it.

To me, it was obvious. "You grab over there, you grab there, and we swing it around until it’s no longer blocking traffic." Simple, right? Easy, right? That had to have occurred to them, right?

Apparently not. They just gathered around it, like a crime scene. I was waiting for someone to start doing a chalk outline.

“We’re pretty sure he purposefully jumped in front of traffic,” they would say in a police statement.

“We had fallen on some tough times,” his telephone pole wife would later say on the six o’clock news, while their son, a mile marker, wept silently in the background, “but I never thought he would resort to this.”

Life and death on the road. It affects us all.

In Memoriam…

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

How to Make a Good Impression

As many people know, I just do this sketch comedy thing to make ends meet. It’s a stop gap until I can earn a living at my true calling, receptioning. That’s right, it’s my dream to be a professional receptionist. I’m getting there. I have a job answering phones at a small copying firm. It’s everything I ever hoped it would be, but I know someday I’ll make it to the big time.

One of the neat things about being a receptionist is that I get to meet all the people who come in to apply for jobs. I have the power to nix an applicant before they even get an interview. A smart applicant knows that making a good impression with the receptionist is the first step in landing a new job.

After 5 1/2 months at my dream job I’ve seen some mistakes at making a good impression. I’m sharing with you what I’ve learned so that you won’t make the same mistake.

1.) Learn how to operate a door. Yes, technology can be scary, but doors are almost everywhere now and most employers expect employees to be able to, at a minimum, open and shut them. Take some time to familiarize yourself with these modern day marvels. People will notice.

2.) Bathe. Now I know that not everyone needs to shower every day and deodorant is forced on us by big conglomerates as just another way to get money from us. I respect people who say, “A human smell is not a bad smell. Down with the Man.” But your funk should not linger in a room 20 minutes after you’ve left.

3.) Go to a bar to pick up women, not a job interview. Don’t refer to the receptionist (me) as “Baby” and under no circumstances should you say to the receptionist (again, me) “You better not be playing with me, ‘cause you know I like the BIG girls” even if it is meant as a compliment. (The only way that sentence would make me feel good is if Tom Welling said it.)

If you take the advice of a professional receptionist, you’re sure to land your very own dream job.

-CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com