What’s Yr Sign? The Upstate Ether Zodiac

 

THE UPSTATE ETHER ZODIAC

Redneck Dawg (March 21 to April 20):
Dim and one-dimensional, you’ve got your base tastes down pat and have no interest whatsoever in exploring anything new. You are an open book: shallow as a puddle and simple as Bisquick.

Baygenie Ken (April 21 to May 20):
Shifty and untrustworthy, you profit off the hard work of others, and then rub their noses in it after the fact. You think you can hide behind your masks, but no amount of disguise will hide the shortness, baldness and fatness in your soul.

Spartacus Crab (May 21 to June 20):
Pushy and dictatorial, you’re more than happy to bring on epic meltdowns just to satisfy your own interests. Feigning to be a team player, you’ll throw everyone else under the bus, and then hope it runs out of gas before it hits you.

Albany Jones (June 21 to July 20):
Tidy and organized, with a masterful sartorial sense, you are the hidden wizard who makes things tick from your secret bunker beneath the Empire State Plaza. If the babes knew you existed, you’d be a playa, but you opt instead to love your machines instead of other people, potential unfulfilled.

Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange (July 21 to August 20):
You have an undeniable animal magnetism that drives the ladies mad and makes the men step aside when you come up the sidewalk, screaming and shaking. But that’s okay, since you just came from their houses, where you were diddling their wives. Who cares if your trousers stink?

Richie Muffinstuffer (August 21 to September 20):
The world is handed to you a silver platter, which you lose, but the world hands you another one, since there’s an endless supply of silver platters out there for the likes of you. Endlessly cheerful, because you have no wants, people are drawn to you because of what you can buy them. But, hey, you have so much money you can buy and still have plenty for yourself later. So why be stingy?

Underpants Gnome (September 21 to October 20):
Big attitude in a little package, with a chip on your shoulder the size of a redwood and the worst job this side of the offal tasters. People pity and fear you, though the fear tends to outweigh the pity, especially when they see you writhing about in a pile of their intimate garments.

Pee Pee Dog (October 21 to November 20):
Cuddly and easily excited, eager to please but accident prone, you mesmerize and horrify people in equal parts.

Gobrin Shalk (November 21 to December 20):
Xenophobic and paranoid, always seeing slights when none are intended, convinced that everyone is out to get you, you lash out every time someone tries to make inroads with you, and are destined to a lonely, bad-toothed life and dismal, painful death, probably at the hands of a large sea mammal.

The Wailrus (December 21 to January 20):
Oh, the whining! Oh, the angst! You are a blathering bundle of complaints and petty whimpers, the world handed to you on a platter, which you hate because it’s silver plate, not sterling. And silver plate makes your teeth hurt, probably because of the cancer. Oh!

Special Kitty K (January 21 to February 20):
Not the brightest bulb in the box, people tend to give you what you want, even if it’s bad for you, because it’s easier than trying to explain stuff to you. When people say they’re laughing with you, don’t be so sure.

Fucking Sucks Monkey (February 21 to March 20):
You are the bummer dispenser. No matter what’s going on, you will be there to tell everybody that it’s not as good as it used to be, or not as good as your other thing, or just not good at all. Thing is, nobody thinks you’re worth a tinker’s damn either, but they’d just rather avoid you that tell you that.

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Carry On, My Wasted Son

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

You pretend to be the nards and the asshats.
Write the jokes about the boobs and the meatflaps.
Posting as your favorite rock stars,
And the Gobrin Shalk.

Egging single doods to their own demises.
Giving unprotected baws some surprises.
Post the Bloorp Bloorp Uh-Oh photo
When it’s time to go.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Masquerading as vagina dentata.
Drinking far more Aquavit than you oughta.
Getting riled by liberal squishees.
You know. Sexually.

Call in SMART when dooders flirt with the meltdown.
See AJones programming deep ‘neath the downtown.
Random Slutty Grrrl is waiting,
you’d better masturbate.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Carry on! May you always be lonely!
Carry on! Entertaining us only!
So just type on, Rum Dum Duggins,
Keep esplainin thins.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun
Har yuo rike me nar?

Published in: on March 17, 2010 at 12:48 am  Leave a Comment  

Upstatetherville

Nibbling on fatback, nuts in our nut sacks,
looking at work that should not be ignored,
We’ve crawled from our bed sheets, to come work on spreadsheets,
but leave them to wait while we visit the Board.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, posting pictures all day
Some dooders cuss that there’s no biddies for us,
so we can’t, get the tuckus in play.

From stateworker flunky to Fucking Sucks Monkey
to baw-wicking dawg and to Albany Jones
we pile on the drivel, as work output shrivels
and get nothing done ‘fore it’s time to go home.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, Yarrr, it’s Pirate Raccoon
Some dooders pause to check out Sloth Bear’s big claws
or to wish, someone else would post soon.

We blow up our livers, suck asbestos slivers,
Cough up some spleens, post some pictures of b00bs
We stew in our hating, and save our berating
for incoming innocent sensitive noobs.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, find a job for McFlig
Some dooders moan that we’re all sad and alone
just because, no one comes to our gigs.

Published in: on March 17, 2010 at 12:32 am  Leave a Comment  

Albany Jones Can’t Relax

Albany Jones: God, I hate the weekends, when I can’t go to work, and I’m stuck here at home. I wake up Monday mornings and as I’m getting ready to head in to the office, I am already looking ahead to the following Friday with dread, knowing that as soon as 5:00 rolls round, I’m back into limbo for two days. Saturdays are the worst. Here I am, it’s Saturday night and there’s nothing to do until midnight, when, maybe, I’ll be able to sleep. That’s five hours away!

V. Gina Gnome: Aw, c’mon, Jones. Weekends are great! Even by yourself! I mean, don’t you have a Play Station or a Wii? A good book? Cable TV? Netflix? A girlfriend? There’s got to be something that would fill the time in a satisfying fashion, right?

Albany Jones: Hour one is over. I found something to do: wash dishes. That killed 20 minutes. I tried to nap, unsuccessfully. Not tired. Did a couple of shots. Still not tired enough. Hour one is over. Four to go.

Magnum Anvil: Or you could go to a show! There’s some jam bands at Revolution Hall tonight. That will easily kill at least four hours. And you might even get lucky with the ladies if you go! Better odds than staying home, anyway.

Albany Jones: Hour two is over. I listened to an Olivia Newton-John album, finished up a book, and watched the rest of the only movie I have around the house, some crappy old Woody Allen film from the ‘70s. Three hours to go.

V. Gina Gnome: Maybe you need to take a week off, Jones, to get your batteries re-charged, and maybe remember how to amuse yourself when you can’t work at your teletype machine. Doesn’t that sound nice?

Albany Jones: A week off would kill me, Gina. You don’t know what it’s like. There are plenty of things I can do, but overall they just make me feel more empty and alone. And then once they are done, I have to search desperately for something else to keep my mind occupied. I have to fight the urge to sit on the bed and scream after a couple of days out of the office. Three day weekends are almost more than I can bear. If only I could get into the office on the weekend, that would be the solution. But the goddamn union makes sure I can’t do that, even if I want to go in and work for free. They’ve put a coded lock on the door to the teletype room to keep me out of there. Gee, thanks, comrades.

Magnum Anvil: Well I’ve got to be honest, here. It sounds to me like Albany Jones just needs to pick himself up by his bootstraps and look at how good he’s got it and quit being a whining pampered baby. If he can’t see that, what with his good union job with the State, then some therapy is in order. Soon.

Albany Jones: Are you paying, Magnum?

Magnum Anvil: Of course I’m not paying, you assclown. You’re a Stateworker! Call EAP!

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Zo vot zeems to be zee trooble, Oolbonee Chones?

Albany Jones: Well, Doktor Schulz von Thun, I guess I’m just bored. I don’t have a Play Station or a Wii or even a computer game. I never liked video games. I also don’t like football, dining out, stand-up comedy or music. How can I be entertained when I’m not at work, given all of that?

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Ovv kurze choor bored! Choor spendink Zatiday nacht typing on zee komputenmaschine! Mit inmaginaries herrens und fraulines!!

Albany Jones: Well, duh. I’m doing that because I’m bored.

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Vot choo need is zee kompanionzhip. Und not zee komputenmaschinen kinden. Zee aktualfleschenbonen kinden iz vot choo needz.

Albany Jones: Tell me about it, Doktor Schulz von Thun. But how do I get me some of that?

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Choo picken up zee telephonenesmaschinenen und choo dial und frienden und zay ‘Ja frienden, chall vee drinken zee beerundsteinen togetter, ja?’ Zimple!! Und nau, zottil be un tausend pfennig, bitte und danke. Tzop tzop!

Albany Jones: EAP’s footing the bill, Doktor, so talk to the State. And maybe you’re right, I do need to reach out to friends and find some other ways to fill the weekends. But tonight, I’m up to seven shots of Bacardi and I’m starting to feel sleepy. Good night everyone, you’ve all been great! Pray for me that I’ll be able to get to sleep, and stay in bed restfully until well past noon tomorrow!

The LORD: Sorry, Jones. I’m not accepting those prayers. I’m planning on waking you up at 4:00 AM so you can worry about stuff at work. Have a nice Sunday!

Published in: on February 7, 2010 at 5:49 pm  Leave a Comment