the bastard woke up this morning and he was a little nonplussed.
shouldn't have been that way as he and his cohorts at killing stuff monthly were the recipients of a
major award last night.
he thought to himself, this is great but what about
the art.
the art.
i really wanted to win something that was solely for the art that we do for this magazine and we've always been sort of an also ran.
but upon speaking about this with the velvet hammer, i felt more in the team spirit of our win and i was content. i felt like more of an ungrateful jerk as well.
the bastard might feel even better if it did in fact turn out that this old house the magazine redesigned their magazine to look like the now deposed domino magazine but, who cares.
a win is a win. i was grateful.
flash forward: i was at trader joes picking up some stuff for the house and for dinner at my rents tomorrow.
and there was this guy who was working the floor who looked like
john amos.
and he was a paragon of jockularity in a cyclone of shopping people.
kept on smiling.
kept on joking.
opened the register and we got to chatting.
the bastard got to bagging.
paid the man and he thanked me for bagging.
the bastard told him that i did the grocery biz for seven years.
"you been down this road before then"
"hells to the yeah", i don't even talk like that.
with that, the bastard carted his food out into the mist of hood he spent the begining of his adulthod in and stopped as he loaded up the car and looked up.
i unloaded trucks for seven years, working my way through college.
loaded image setters for art directors for 5 years before i got my shot.
was promoted to assistant art director 7 months before they closed my book.
and then i landed here with the animal heads and never looked back.
well, maybe once or twice.
and the bastard felt thankful.
looking up into the mist, i felt good.
good times. good times.
—the bastard
so the bastard peeled himself out of bed to go to work and the first thing he noticed was that all of the cubicles seemed to have moved 3 feet away from where they were when i was last there. i assume that i was just too damn tired. or maybe it just seemed like a big space compared to where i'm laying my head these days. anyway, the bastard rolls in and puts the coffee ready and got the eyes open. i stroll into the editors office and ask to see the leg lamp. the major award. you know the leg lamp marked fra-geel-lay from a christmas story. the editor chuckles and we talk about how this little bit makes the bad quarter seem less bad because we're behind the eight ball a bit. this makes us all feel a little bit better and like i said it also makes the bastard feel like not every contest is as slanted as a figure skating match. now go have yer weekend, shiteyes.
