Thursday, February 12, 2009

Tag? Sorry, but with respects we must decline.

[as originally posted 12/23/08 on my formerly free thinking blog ]

Oh! Oh! Smart Arse is freaking out! Standing up; partly drunk; he's really freaking-the-fuck out!

"TAGGED! Tagged! What'ya mean we've been Tagged?" he's ranting as he spews beer.

"By who?" he demands, "Is it by - by those House of Commons Tory bastards with the IP Address 192-197-82.#? Is it them? IS IT THEM? Oh, Jesus... we've been Tagged! Did the fascists tag us? Are they tagging us? Are we in troubl..."

Only then does Smart Arse finally, mercifully, stop bellowing. Course it may have something to do with the fact he's just pissed his pants.

"No, man." I say trying to talk him down, "We're not in trouble. Relax. Ah, fuck, ... can't believe you just whizzed your drawers! (much head-shaking on my part) Christ go into my bedroom find some sweats or pants. Get cleaned up - I can't talk to you like this... oh, pass me another beer first & get out of the way of the TV - I'm missing Dallas getting slaughtered."

Sheepishly Smart Arse looks down. The momentary awkwardness gives me a shot at telling him what I had originally meant.

"What I was trying to tell you is we've been tagged by Conceit & Sociopathy. It's a game, a viral blogger game - like a fucking 'chain-letter' you paranoid idiot. It's harmless - it just asks bloggers to log their employment history."

"Harmless! Employment history! Jesus! Fat Arse, that's how the man gets you! How do we know this Conceit & Sociopathy...?" he blurts.

"You know, he's the guy with the blog pic of Carlos the Jackal, I like his stuff...."

"WHAT? Your gonna trust a guy with a terrorist slash assassin plastered all over his blog. Jesus, how stupid are you? Man, he's probably a CSIS Agent! That's how they do it man! That's how they fish for subversives! Urgle-burgl-..." Smart Arse is now incoherent. And he is pacing like a retard in circles - a la RainMan. He's not only agitated, he's also full-a-piss.

"Look. Chill!" I say, "We're not subversives for Christ sake! We both have mortgages, we both have kids; Jesus, one of us is a government minion and the other is a researcher. Plus, we're here killing beers and worshiping at the biggest altar, taking in the biggest opiate for the masses there is: NFL Football. We're no more subversive than Gary Doer. We're just like him - aging shadows of our former selves - our potential muted and compromised. Get a grip arsehole, CSIS doesn't go after guys like us. They go after those poor innocent fuckers from other countries with lots of 'Zed's, J's, A's & H's in their names. By the way, you don't have to actually say "slash" you know - I knew what you meant. Look, anyways, just chill. Go down the hall you'll find some clean sweats in the master bedroom..."

"Yeah, yeah. But Fat Arse, I just don't know.... I... ," he mutters as he rambles down the hallway.

Minutes pass. He emerges. Cleaned up (thank God) and calmer.

"Look Fat Arse," he says, "this is a big decision for We Two Arseholes. We shouldn't take it lightly. Do we really want to put ourselves out there like this? I mean, I'm uneasy about telling people our employment history."

Sighing, I respond, "It's no big deal. It's just a blogger way to get a better handle on who's writing all the fetid crap in the blogsphere."

"Fat Arse, it's blogosphere," he sighs.

"Whatever." I reply, "Look, I just don't see the big deal. I don't mind telling people I was a paperboy in 1975. I'm proud of that - I was a damn good paperboy."

"Yeah. Okay Fat Arse, I mean, I guess I don't mind telling people I was once a swim instructor and a miner." he assents.

"See," I say, "Look Smart Arse it's no big deal. So what if I was a colour-blind retail clerk working in a Canadian Tire paint department? The fact I offered customers horrible advice is besides the point. Who cares if I once did grunt work for the military. Who cares if I worked in a warehouse for years and turned off my brain everyday, smoked pot, and lifted heavy objects just for the fun-of-it?"

Smart Arse ponders his beer. The Eagles score (again) and he then says: "Yeah, I guess it's okay if I admit I was once a Sanitation Engineer and Petroleum Engineer."

Now, I hit the roof.

"You're full of shit." I shout, "I knew you then - you were a summer employ in [nameless town] - you weren't any sort of "Sanitation Engineer" you were just another lazy-assed student garbage boy! And as for the Petroleum Engineer! Using Vaseline on your sorry rod hardly qualifies as fucking quote-unquote Engineering! More like microscopic manipulation. Sheeshh, if we're gonna do this we gotta do this right."

"Okay, Okay, you don't have to say quote-unquote - I too get it." he retorts, "I admit - I wasn't really a Petro-Engineer. I was just a gas-jockey at the Co-op."

"That's better." I say.

"Yeah. Well what about you Fat Arse. Are you going to tell you were in the Hospitality Industry for twelve years. And for the most part you you spent more time servicing your female co-workers than the guests. Huh, you gonna tell people that?"

"Well, no." I admit, "But I will tell how I hated every minute I had to wear a suit. And how I hated every 'corporate-motivation' seminar I ever attended because the only thing they instilled in me was a psychotic desire to punch the corporate speakers in the head."

"Yeah," Smart Arse snidely remarks, "you do that. Makes it sound like you are not a team player."

"Yeah," I reply, "Well I'm not - that's why we're a duo. No team here - just a 'you'; and just a 'me'."

"Great" he says, "no wonder these editorial meetings are so fucked up! What about University?"

"What about it?" I say.

"Well, Fat Arse, what about our time as students?"

"Not a job" I say flatly.

"Yeah, well we got degrees", he lobbies, "we were both TA's"

"So," I say, "any suck-up can get a TA job if he massages his advisor's ego enough. Doesn't count.'

"Hmm," Smart Arse says, "Maybe you are right. Well what about gaps in our employment history?"

"What about them?" I say, suddenly tired of the game.

"Well, they are important." Smart Arse avers, "For instance, your little stint in the Hoosegow is important. It explains why you say weird things like: 'Tape a Bible to your ass before you enter the shower'. Also, the gaps explain why I couldn't work as I finished off my thesis and why you didn't finish yours!"

"Hey," I am defensive, "I'll have you know I worked full time when I wasn't finishing my thesis."

"See," he says smugly, "Gaps are important."

"Yeah," I retort, "Well so are employment facts. How are we going to explain your stint as an amoral jargon-jockey? I mean, what about all that time you spent intellectually masturbating over how to craft messages for the public that said nothing! Huh, how we gonna explain that? And what about your current job at..."

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare fucking say it!" he explodes, "You know it's off-limits.'

"Pussy!" I malign

"Oh! Here we go.' Smart Arse snipes, "How are we going to explain the thousands of hours you spend looking up inane facts for arcane projects that only a small select group of egg-heads even understand, let alone care about! Huh, what about that???"

Silence - dead cold. TV beer commercial running. Mute - we both stare.

"Hey, Smart Arse." I say quietly.

"Yeah, Fat Arse?" he mumbles.

"Maybe this Tag Thing isn't such a good idea." I say.

He nods, "You're right," he says "how about we forgo it. Other blogger's don't care who we are anyways. Let's not do this Tag thing. Agreed?"

"Okay," I say, "We won't do it. Whew, gotta admit it's a relief. Less stress and all...."

"Yeah," he says, "Hey Fat Arse, I think these editorial meetings are getting better... yup, most definitely ... no violence this time. Cheers!"

"Cheers buddy?"


"Hey, Smart Arse" I say.

"Yeah," he says, lost in the game.

"Just thought I'd let you know. You better get those sweats off before my wife comes home .... they're hers!"

*********** FIN ***************

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