smithismyrealname.com

Weakened in Paradise

Special Report -- I look pretty hell-damn good.

Some of my enemies don't believe I have a reflection, but I do have one and it's rather attractive. I'm handsome in a non-traditional, asymmetric, rugged, quirky, funny-looking way.

Genetic attributes have a lot to do with it, of course, but my family's DNA chain has had its fair share of broken or missing links. My father always told me he's not sure about my mother's identity because he was really drunk the night I was conceived. 

You All Look Like Ants to Me

Special Report -- I quit my day job yesterday. I just couldn't imagine growing old with those people.

How they hated me!

The company for which I worked sold stuff. I don't remember what, exactly—it's not important now because it certainly wasn't important then. Anyway, trucks would bring stuff to our building and people would empty the trucks and put the stuff in other trucks that would then leave. In trade lingo, that's known as commerce.

My part, as I understood it, involved reviewing printouts that detailed the difference between the number of trucks coming in and the trucks going away. That's called profit margin, another industry term.

I'm very competitive. I'm more competitive than most other people, and I do it better than anyone else. Why should I let losers and douchebags slow me down? My ex-boss Beverly, who looked like the exact opposite of Jessica Alba, said my approach was a way of achieving sales leadership. 

Some of the people with whom I worked exerted more energy avoiding doing their jobs than they would have spent if they had just done what they were paid to do. That's called management.

Useless Information

Special Report -- I'm trying to concentrate. I can't let the recent earthquakes, cyclones, and tornadoes distract me. What a relief to find out these disasters were…natural. By that, I mean real. Not so great for the victims, but good news for what's left of my sanity.

Think of me as a Jimmy Fallon in the realm of marginally talented nobodies promoted to notoriety. I'm something of an expert on survival and surveillance. These are sure to be important topics in the years ahead—or weeks, depending on your sense of optimism.

I've become a pundit, an authority, a talking head if you will. Thanks to the Internets and reality TV, I'm almost popular.

A thin line exists between fifteen minutes of fame and overexposure, but don't worry. All forms of media and communication will have collapsed before you learn to spell my last name.

My Secret Life as a Superdelegate

Special Report -- I had to take a second job. There's no need to review the nation's leading economic indicators—the price of pasta has nearly doubled in two months. Those weasel bastards in Washington only say "recession" when they're talking about each other's hairlines. Big juju in that word, I guess.

It's pretty rough that one has to live in a dual-income household just to make ends meet. My wife took the kids and left me, so I'm kind of hosed in the financial resources department. The upside is I don't have to hear all of that constant whining about "nutritious food", "proper health care", or "bail money."

Rising Disemployment

Special Report -- I want to become more self-sufficient. My pathetic reliance on monetary systems, corporate structures, and people wears me down. How many times daily is it normal to vomit? Monday through Friday, I drive (I hate my commute) to work (I hate my job) to win approval (I hate emotional dependency) and get paid money (I like that part).

Why can't I stay home and let the money simply show up in my bank account? Better yet, why can't I just stay in a better home? Somewhere nice.

In our culture, "unemployment" is an ugly word. I prefer "disemployment." Some of you will judge me and say I am lazy or weak, but you're just haters. When I become disemployed I'll be working harder than ever before!

Bob To The Surface

Special Report -- I'm back, surface dwellers. It's been a month since I went underground, and quite honestly I did not expect any of you to still be here. My face was red when I realized the world had not ended! Not ended yet, at any rate.

Suspicious because of the lack of cataclysmic rumblings or general mayhem, and totally frustrated by my craving for a nice fresh spinach salad, I cracked the seal on my fallout shelter's formidable door and sniffed the air. Alkaline, dusty, contaminated. Perfectly normal. My house was still standing in its lopsided way and the neighborhood looked as marginal as it ever does.

My laptop died last week, so I anxiously logged on with the PC in my home office to find out what the hell was going on with the end of the world not beginning. Five minutes spent on Yahoo! and Google News left me sitting in my leopard skin executive chair feeling crushed and unable to breathe. Life as we know it had not ended while I was underground but had surely changed in strange and terrible ways.

Year Of The Rat

Special Report -- I woke up this morning to the realization my wife and kids were gone. We've been down here in my custom-built bomb shelter for less than two weeks. My first thought was that the steel door was breached, and food- and sex-starved mutants had carried my family away. Then I saw the note. Written in my wife's bold, flowing, masculine script was her rendering of the cliché "Dear Bob" letter:

Super Hyper Mega Ultra Deluxe Tuesday

Special Report -- With about half of all available convention delegate votes at stake—1,023 for Republicans and 1,681 for Democrats—today's Super Tuesday contests easily attract the most attention from presidential candidates as well as the overheated media.

The field of contenders has already dropped dramatically since Iowa and New Hampshire just a few weeks ago; some of the more obvious weasels and douchebags have already been sent home. It's far easier to limit the choices and compress the dialog into digestible Rush Limbaugh soundbites

Day Six: Family Values, Social Networks, Rats

Special Report -- It's only the sixth day and I'm already starting to wonder if I did the right thing by moving underground. I love my wife and kids, but have I made a huge mistake by bringing them? Lately I'm not sure if the people down here with me in the bomb shelter are even my family. They look and sound the same as always, but they also spend a lot of time squatting on the opposite side of our cozy little retreat just glaring at me. I don't think my true loved ones would do that.

I've decided to keep blogging for as long as I am able. My WiFi connection twenty feet below the earth's surface is better than you might expect. I have doubts about the durability of my laptop's batteries though, so I told my daughter MySpace has already blown up. As far as I know this has not yet happened, but the idea pleases me.

Digging My Way To A Better Armageddon

Special Report -- I'm writing only because I needed to take a break from shoveling. I don't have the physical endurance of my younger days but I'm mean and scrappy. I'd like to scoop out a few more cubic yards of dirt to give my family some extra elbow room. My soil's high clay content is slowing me down and I want to be finished before it gets dark outside.

The international stock market really pooped its pants this week. That was one of the last signs I'd been waiting for—it's been one pre-apocalyptic event after another lately. French President Sarkozy hooked up with a supermodel. Britney Spears lost custody of her children—who saw that coming? The ongoing writers strike means the only thing to watch on TV is Celebrity Exfoliation Challenge. Centenarian John McCain appears to be making a comeback as a presidential contender. I told my wife it wouldn't even matter who wins the election in November; "President of what", I said to her.