Soft Drinks and Rat Pee

As I cracked open a Diet Coke this morning, a coworker chided me for not rinsing the top of the can.

"They all have rat pee on them, you know," she whispered.
"Rat pee?" I said, "Really? All of them?"
"Of course," she said, "They're in these filthy warehouses before they came here. Rats pee all over them."

I looked at the can more closely. I'll clean the top if it seems unusually filthy, but I'll usually give it the benefit of the doubt. Now my curiosity was piqued. I had to investigate further.

I've worked briefly in one of these beverage distribution warehouses as an industrial temp for a couple of days. I had to resort an entire semi full of black label beer. The driver took an off ramp too fast, and all the pallets came apart. It was about 100 degrees. Every so often I'd pick up a damaged can and it would explode, like a warm and nasty beer grenade.

In my limited experience, the beverage warehouse was no cleaner or dirtier than any other warehouse.

But now I have questions -

How do they ensure that each can gets peed on?

What about the cans stacked on top of each other? Do they spread them out to allow the rats access?

How many rats are there? Are they union?

Have some warehouses cut back and substituted cheaper mouse pee?

I have the following image of some guy whose job is to be "the rat guy". He'd be the guy who makes sure that they get a nice even coating of rat pee on all the cans. Maybe he has trained rats or something. Or maybe the they outsource the rats and he just uses a sprayer. I dunno.

I'm going to look into this and get back to you.

LM

The Creative Process

Many of you write to me and say, "Lance, how is it that you manage to write something new and entertaining virtually every day? What's your secret?" And the answer is simple. I use the patented Mercenary Words creative process. Try it yourself, and watch the content flow, like a big flow-y thing.

Because I'm a sharing kind of guy, I've outlined the process below.

1. Go to work.
2. Write documentation for about 13 minutes.
3. Create elaborate revenge fantasy against enemies.
4. Decide to save fantasy in case I ever have a chance to put it into motion.
5. Listen to gangsta rap.
6. Have lunch with loser friends. Pray that they'll say something funny that I can use.
7. Cope with disappointment of loser friends yet again.
8. Consider getting new friends.
9. Decide instead to order rounds of tequila fanny bangers.
10. Friends still not funny, but personally am much funnier. Sexier, too!
11. Return to work
12. Write documentation for about 13 minutes
13. Listen to more gangsta rap.
14. Scare coworkers by singing out loud about "Brooklyn in the back, sippin' 'yac, whassup, y'all"
15. Panic that it's already 2:00 and still have nothing to write.
16. Pound forehead onto keyboard.
17. Sniff markers.
18. Remember creative writing teacher's advice - Write what you know.
19. Throw together some garbage about drinking, cars, and B&E.
20. Realize it sucks, but save it in case I get more desperate later.
21. Copy and paste the word "poopy" over and over, hoping that it might somehow become amusing, or possibly avante-garde.
22. Reread previous posts wondering if it's too early to try to recycle content.
23. Become sufficiently desperate that I decide to use garbage post about drinking, cars, and B&E.

It's a thing of beauty, people. Feel free to use it in your own blogging lives.

LM

Real Time Fetus

So it's time for another true story from the Manion Files. This one comes from when I was in grad school. I was in a technical writing masters program at Northeastern University. I wasn't there so much out of a love of academia, but more because to get a job in tech I needed to get some credibility. The masters seemed like the shortest path.

Anyway, there was a lot of friction between the tech writing masters students and the traditional English major students. They viewed us as mercenary hacks (pretty perceptive of them, really), selling out the beauty of language for a few dollars. We viewed them as pretentious snobs out of their minds with jealousy over the fact that we had actual job offers that didn't involve the phrase "Let me tell you about our specials today."

Because the tech writing masters was still nominally an English degree, we had to take a lot of critical theory courses. I hate critical theory. I hate critical theory like I hate spiders. "But Lance, what is critical theory?" you ask. It's the idea that books aren't really about what they say they're about.

I hate critical theory like I hate spiders.

For example, Feminist Critical Theory would tell you that "Pride and Prejudice" is not about a woman who meets a snobby guy, but eventually they fall in love. FCT would tell you that it's really about a woman trapped in a patriarchal hegemony, who attempts to subvert the existing paradigm, but is eventually subsumed by the dominant power structure. Or something. From there it gets kind of complicated. A lot of it is really just intellectual whacking off. But a lot of academics love it.

Whenever I suggested that maybe Jane Austen wrote "Pride and Prejudice" because she thought it was a good story, and might make her a couple of bucks, I was told that I "...just didn't get it."

Generally, the salient points of any critical theory book can be boiled down to a few pages. And yet they take up hundreds of pages, and are written in light bendingly dense prose. The whole thing strikes me as incredibly self serving. To give you an idea, our main text was "Modest-
Witness@Second-Millennium.FemaleMan_Meets_OncoMouse" by Donna Harraway.

That's the real title. I didn't change a thing. Now I was an English major in college. I LOVE to read. And this book made me want to put my own eyes out.

So I did what I could to have fun with it. Eventually we were told we'd have to do presentations on selected essays. I chose "Real Time Fetus" by Raina Rapp. The professor went through the class and asked each of us why we chose the essay that we did. I responded that I chose the paper because "Real Time Fetus" because it sounded like an awesome name for a punk band.

Strangely, I was the only one who found this endlessly hilarious.

For those of you who care, the thesis of the essay was that sonogram imaging technology reduces women to a vessel that carries the fetus around so we can look at it. The sonogram makes the woman "transparent" and marginalizes her role in the pregnancy. See? Two sentences. Of course, it took the original author 40 pages to get there. That's why I'm a tech
writer, and she's not.

It really got ugly when I Photoshopped little fetal mohawks onto my visual aids. I think the professor passed me just so she'd never have to see me again.

LM

IBM Still Asks About Me

I went on my first business trip in the mid ninties. I was sent to IBM's California office with a few coworkers to perform usability testing for a small software startup. I was very excited.

The trip lasted a few days and went well. I got to drive a rental car and expense my dinners out. A good time was had by all. Until the last day.

A few of us were having an informal conference in an office. I had my knee up on a chair. The conference was going well. I had convinced IBM that I knew what I was doing.

The conference dragged on, and I noticed that my leg had fallen asleep. I put it down to restore circulation, and maybe take a few steps.

The moment I tried to put weight on the leg, it failed completely. It was totally numb and useless. I collapsed like I'd been tasered. Given the thud that my knee made, the numb thing was probably a mercy.

I wasn't really alarmed. My leg was only asleep. I tried to get up, but my leg was useless. I was flopping around like a fish.

My coworkers were dying of laughter. IBM thought I was havin a seizure. As I protested that I was fine, I tried to pull myself up using the nearest chair, but the chair was on wheels, so I ended up just dragging it back and forth as my legs flailed.

After a few minutes, enough feeling returned that I was able to stagger up and out into the hall. My coworkers were on the verge of rupturing, they were laughing so hard. I think one guy wet himself.

I was never invited back by IBM. But my friends tell me that they still ask about that guy who fell over...

LM

Why Did You Visit Mercenary Words?

The vast majority of you come here for my insouciant wit, and the vain hope that I'll start posting nude pictures of myself. But some people come here looking for a little something extra. I thought I would share with you some of the most exciting paths people have taken to visit this little corner of the web.

From France: Enter the terms "Monkey Fuck" into AOL France's search engine - we're on the first page.

From Russia: Enter "clow pie fetish" into Russian Google - Again, page numero uno. The thing that amazes me is that people actually click through to the site.

From the USA: Enter "Scabie" into Google. Apparently a lot of people think I've got something worth hearing on the subject of scabies - we're front page news.

From the USA: Enter Mercenary Lemurs into Google - not only are we on the first page, we're the number one result.

And that's pretty darn great.

But I've noticed an alarming rise in the number of people who visit the site because they queried Google for "clown pie fetish" I'm serious here. I've got hits from Russian Google, US Google and French Google.

Now I'm pretty much willing to do anything for traffic, but.... Damn....

Now I certainly hold some of the blame. I was the guy who wrote the original post on clown sex, lord help me. And yet, I'm more than a little freaked out by the number of people who are clearly looking for it. And my software only records the ones who click through. I mean, how many other people are out there desperately searching Google for photos of some guy with floppy shoes and a festively striped strap-on?

I had thought about doing a post about furries at some point, but after this, there's just no chance.

LM

Jobs That Don't Appear on My Resume

Okay people. I'm running on far too little sleep, and far too much caffeine. When I got in this morning, I pretty much dunked a straw in the coffee pot and washed it down with a handful of espresso beans.

Why do I tell you this? Mostly because I suspect it means that we'll be casting our usually low standards for coherence to the winds. And I'll be twitching more than usual. Though my record for twitching is still held by the night that I drank 15 shots of espresso. I really need to learn that if one of something is good, that doesn't automatically make drinking fifteen of them into a smart move. And that's a truth that applies to both espresso, Jaeger shots, and dried fruit.

In the mean time, I'm too tired to make something up, so I'll just write some stuff about myself and the various jobs that I've held that don't appear on my resume anymore - a topic of endless fascination for all of you, I'm sure.

1. Shopping Cart Retrieval Technician, "Jerry's King of Meats" Yes, that's really the name of the store. The worst part was when I had to dress up as the "Sausage Prince" and wave to passing cars. They went out of business shortly after I quit.

2. Cash Register Drone, "Caldors" I was your basic register monkey. Caldors went out of business shortly after I quit.

3. Beach Concessioneer "Scarborough Beach, Rhode Island" This was a good job. I sold suntan lotion on the biggest guido beach in Rhode Island. It was great. These guys would get a macho thing going over who could use the lowest SPF, until they were all out there basting themselves with baby oil. I ran the over/under on burn ward admissions. Unfortunately I was fired before I could drive them out of business.

4. Print Technician "Jay Printing" This job was pretty uneventful, but for two things. I was high on waste ink fumes most of the time, and I accidentally destroyed $30,000 worth of paper stock by spraying it with toxic waste. They have since gone out of business.

5. Shipping Technician "Kaman Industrial Technologies" This was a fun job. I put stuff in boxes and shipped them. I was buddies with the UPS guy. I listened to the radio. Any job that involves unlimited styrofoam noodles and bubble wrap is a good time. Incredibly, they are still in business.

6. Site Laborer "Dacon Construction" What does a degree in English prepare you for? Manual labor! I moved heavy things all day for next to no pay. Not my proudest moment. Dacon is still around. Clearly I'd lost my kiss of death at this point.

7. Associate "Circuit City" I sold stereo equipment. I lived the commissioned sales life. Not a good time. On the plus side, I can talk home theater with best. Eventually I quit to go to grad school. And Circuit City is now in dire financial straits. Another one bites the dust!

Bwah, ha, ha!

LM

Manions Through History

Although you probably don't realize this, various Manions have been present for a number of key events in history. We don't like to brag, but here are a few of history's better known
Manions....

Throk Mantorg - 1000 BC - 976 BC. Hunter/Gatherer.
One of the earliest Manions, Great²³ Grandpa Throk discovered that if you let something ferment long enough, you can get wasted off it. In his case, it was rotting fruit. Unfortunately, this discovery also led to the subsquent discovery that the cool, badass feeling that you get while wasted does not actually equate to being cool and badass. His untimely death was preceded by an extremely unsuccessfull attempt to impress the women of the tribe by removing the pelt from one of Ireland's last surviving cave bears.

Carrick O'Manion - 375 - 400. Monk.
Carrick had the good fortune to be the assistant to Ireland's own Saint Patrick, who is famous for having driven all snakes from Ireland. Few know, however, how he accomplished this feat. Carrick O'Manion and his decendents know that the secret lies in giving your assistant a robe made of snake treats and a small head start.

Sean O'Manion - 788 - 804. Scribe.
Sean began a proud tradition of grafitti that various Manions have continued to the this day. Unfortunately, Sean chose to practice this craft in the margins of what would later be known as the "Book of Kells", a breathtakingly beautiful illuminated manuscript of the first four gospels in latin. The case was handled by a visiting Spanish priest by the name of Tourquemada, who would later achieve fame of his own.

Liam Manion - 1812 - 1848. Songwriter.
Liam was the writer of many of the classic Irish drinking songs, including, Irish Rover, Wild Rover, Wild Irish Rover, and lastly, The Rover Who Happened to Be Irish and Also Wild. He was eventually forced to flee the country after taking part in an attempt to overthrow English rule by... um... "tainting" local supplies of crumpets. Despite Liam's tremendous enthusiasm, the attempts were unsuccessful due to the absence of any Englishmen in the village and Liam was driven out by his fellow villagers.

So there you go. Just a few of the many Manions who have helped to shape history. Come back soon when we cover the celebrated women of the Manion clan!

LM

Gangsta Folk

Right now I'm listening to a folk acoustic cover of NWA's "Straight Outta Compton". Really! It's pretty interesting. Nina Gordon, formerly of Veruca Salt, posted it on her Web site. It's just her and an acoustic guitar. It's a slow, melodic interpretation of a song about "...going off on a muthafucker like that with a gat that's pointed at your ass..." sung by a petite white woman with a very pure, clear voice. Trippy.

I'm thinking that there's an untapped market here. I mean, there's plenty of soccer moms who might be a little intimidated by The Gheto Boys or Ghost Face Killa who could totally be down with a harder edged Sarah McLaughlin. Someone singing songs about beating down the punk-ass paperboy who dissed your bushes with a poorly thrown copy of the Wall Street Journal.

Try it with me.

Sarah Mclachlin, "Sweet Surrender"
"It doesn’t mean much
It doesn’t mean anything at all
The life I’ve left behind me
Is a cold room
I’ve crossed the last line
From where I can’t return
Where every step I took in faith
Betrayed me"

It's nice, but where's the edge? It's not street. But all you have to do it add in a kicking bass line and, as Mary J Blige says, "...turn that Dre track way up high!" So you end up with something like this:

"It don't mean much
It don't mean anything at all
This muthafucking busta
That I capped wit mah nine
'Cause the mothafucker fucked with me
An' you know I gots to get mine
Ya dissed mah pedigreed pugs
So now ya leakin' from the slugs.

Call the cops if ya wanna live,
'Cause ya still gonna give
Full respect
When ya hear I wrecked
Ya time share on the Cape!"

Yeah, it's S&M keeping it alive in oh-five, bitches! Word is bond!"

If people don't listen to the lyrics it sounds all nice and new age-y. If people listen to the lyrics, they know that if Karen and her Toyota Camry cut you off one more time in the supermarket parking lot, you got an AK for her ass. And it's a 187 on an undercover cop.

I'm just saying. And since my return to country music superstardom seems to have stalled, I've got some time on my hands.

I'll be waiting for your call, Sarah.

-J

Ya, Ve Haf Dat in Germany

Back in the day, when I worked in London as a professional balloon animal maker, I used to dread many things. Screaming children, balloons that snapped back into your eye, terrorist bombs, that kind of thing. But there was one thing I dreaded more than anything else - German tourists.

Now don't get me wrong. I ran into plenty of American tourists that had me ready to declare Canadian citizenship. One woman from Long Island wearing all leopard print clothes still makes me wake up screaming. But it was the German tourists that killed me.

They typically dressed all in black. And they'd look at you like you were a monkey that had just learned a vaguely amusing trick. No matter what I did, they'd look bored and say something to the effect of "Ya, das ist nice, but ve haf somesing better in Germany." At first I just assumed I was running into a group of bad will ambassadors, but after six months, I realized it wasn't just coincidence.

I could have produced a cure for cancer that both freshened the air and removed upholstery stains, and they would have told me that the German version also played soothing music.

The real low came when I made the starship Enterprise out of one balloon (I can do this! Really!) and Klaus & Co. asked me if I had a song that I was supposed to sing as I made the balloons. I responded that I had something even better - personal dignity. I don't think they got it.

It got to the point that I wanted to do something outrageous just to shake their composure. I decided to whip it out and pee on their shoes. But then I realized that they'd just say, "Ya, ve also haf surly street performers who pee unt ze people. But in Germany ze performers pee mit more vigor, unt haf much larger schnitzens. Zey also make ze mit der inzightful political commentary, too."

And I can't handle that kind of pressure.

Someday I'm going to Germany. And whatever they show me or bring me, I'm going to tell them that it's disgusting, and that we have a better version in the United States. Then I'm going to pee on their street performers. Just to see.

LM

My Nerve Was Shattered

Once upon a time, I lived in London and was a professional balloon animal maker. It's pretty glamorous. Mostly I worked in Harrods, which is the world's most interesting department store. You could walk in with nothing in the world but a sack full of cash, and walk out with pretty much anything in the world. Seriously. High fashion, groceries, cars, exotic pets, houses, electronics, fine art, sporting goods, whatever. It's a six story tall city block. If you've got the money, they've got something for you.

While there I made balloon animals for the rich and famous. And stepped on Dustin Hoffman. But that's another story. Suffice to say he's shorter than he looks.

But people often ask me, "Lance! Why did you give up professional balloon animal making for the vastly more lucrative field of technical writing?"

And the answer is, I had to. My nerve was shot. I'd lost the edge. Like the professional skier who wipes out and breaks half a dozen bones, I'd gone too far, and paid the price.

The day started typically enough. I woke up in my digusting flat in Golders Green. I took the tube into Knightsbridge, and signed in at Harrods. All morning long, I made balloon animals. Poodles, cats, bunnies, parrots in swings, turtles, frogs, I was good. And I knew it.

A group of Danish schoolchildren approached and began clamoring for animals. I started blowing up a balloon. Modelling balloons, fully inflated, are about a yard long. But you should never inflate the whole balloon. Some uninflated slack is necessary as you squeeze and twist the bubbles that make up the animal. Every animal is different. Bunny needs almost no slack. Teddy bear needs a ton. So you watch the balloon carefully as you inflate.

I was going to make the Danish schoolchildren a poodle. It's the easiest of the balloons - a good choice for when you're making a dozen very quickly. I started blowing up the balloon. When it got to about two and a half feet long, it popped. Now, professional balloon animal makers are used to popping balloons. But unlike most balloons, this one snapped right back into my left eye. Now I don't know if you've even been hit in the eye with a two and a half foot rubber band, but it hurts like hell.

I didn't want to alarm the schoolchildren, so I quickly blew up another balloon, threw some random twists in it, and shoved it at one of the children. Meanwhile, I was blinded with tears and pain, and my eye was swelling out of my head. I could barely see. I staggered into a supply closet and tried to ride it out.

After about half an hour, I could see again. But I was never the same. I couldn't watch the balloons. My eyes were screwed shut. And my art suffered. My turtles had tumors. My elephants looked like mosquitos. My bumblebees looked like... well, suffice to say they didn't belong in the toy department, that's for sure.

I was forced to retire.

Some days I look at kids making balloon animals out on the streets. The twist the balloons with enthusiasm and grace. Maybe another man could have faced his fear and recovered. But I'm not that man. So I now I just watch others, and wait gleefully for their balloons to snap. So I can gloat. Because I'm vindictive that way.

LM

Scratchy the Scabie

I spend a lot of time online, and I've noticed a trend for drug companies to create cute little characters associated with their drugs. You've got that cute little Zoloft bubble, and Digger the Dermatophyte for people who treat their messed up toenails with Lamisil. These are just the ones that I can think of off the top of my head.

Here at Mercenary Words, we're always looking for a way to cash in on something. Anything. We'd sell our own grandparents for a dollar! So we've been looking to come up with a licensed character that we can sell to a major pharmaceutical company. And we think we've got something here.

Scabies. Well, we don't actually have scabies. Thank god. But we have a licensed character for scabies.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with scabies, they're skin lice. They're barely visible without a microscope. They live under your skin and make itching your full time job. Particularly in areas where it's hard to really scratch that itch publicly, if you know what I mean.

So now we're going to propose the character of Scratchy the Scaby to the major drug companies. He's cute, lovable, and makes you scratch till you bleed. I've already ordered a thousand plush toys. They've got so many cute little legs and antennae.

When the money starts rolling in, I plan to become completely obnoxious.

LM

Return to Country Music Superstardom

Many of you probably don't know this about me, but I was once a country music superstar. From my first hit, a cover of Joe Bob Briggs' "You Said You Were a Virgin, But Your Baby Ain't Named Jesus" I sold millions of records. But fame took its toll, and I fell into a pit of drugs, debauchery, and collectible plates from the Franklin Mint. But when I was on top of my game, the world had never before seen a man so capable of telling the American story in song.

"You Said You Were a Virgin, But Your Baby Ain't Named Jesus"

Rolling Stone described my first album " 'Merican Manion" as "...the first album by country newcomer Lance Manion." Of my first performance at the Grand Ole Opry, the Nashville Star said, "Loss of life was minimized by emergency response units." And of course Shania Twain performed a memorable duet with me at the Country Music Awards. The event was later headlined by People Magazine as "Manion! He'd Like to Feel That Woman!"

But now that I've dried out for a few days, and Shania's people have agreed to drop the charges, I'm thinking it's time to get back on the horse. So I've gotten out my old six string guitar, and I've written a few new tunes. Brooks and Dunn, look out. I'm a-coming for ya!

• "She Gave Back the Wedding Ring(worm)"
• "I Had No Idea (She Was Your Momma)"
• "My New Pickup Truck Kicks Ass (Grandma Didn't Really Need that Operation Anyway)"

Just let me belt out a few more and I'll singing at the Opry again. Yee Haw!


LM

Genuine Manion - Accept No Substitutes

So I've noticed that we get a lot of traffic from people who've queried Google for the name Lance Manion. Now this search returns a lot of guys who claim to be Lance Manion. For example, there's a guy on BarettaForums claiming to be Lance Manion. Now I'm certainly comfortable with my second amendment rights, but I'm not that guy.

This situation creates a lot of concern out there among the two or three of you who regularly follow Mercenary Words. How do you, the reader, know that you're dealing with a genuine Manion? Or, as the philosopher Eminem once asked, "Will the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up?"

So here are a few helpful hints for identifying a true Manion from the hordes of Manion wannabees.

First off, examine your Manion. Check for scarring. True Manions tend to get scarred. For example, I have (among other scars) my Yuppie battle scar. It's about four inches long and runs up the inside of my left arm. I got it while opening a crate of Bordeaux. It's embarrassing. I try not to tell people how I got it. It's like having a brie related injury. Usually I lie and tell people I got it while rescuing a minivan full of Playboy Playmates from a pack of rabid weasels.

It's like having a brie related injury.

Once you have examined your Manion, ask him or her to solution to any problem. The Manion should reply something along the lines of the following: "Rage until you puke" or "Beat it until your fists bleed" A typical Manion is a simple being, with simple thoughts. It's kind of a Rousseau tabula rossa thing. But with beer and violence.

If your Manion has already answered the previous questions correctly, the odds are good that you have a genuine Manion. Still, if you want to be extra sure, ask your Manion where the best breakfast in the greater Rhode Island area is. A true Manion will immediately reply "The Legs and Eggs show at the Foxy Lady on Chalkstone Ave in Providence. Duh."

So these little pointers should help you to identify authentic Manions, and not be fooled by pretenders. It's kind of like Antique Roadshow, but instead of hearing things like "This is genuine Edwardian sterling silver tea set in excellent condition. It's worth about three thousand dollars," you hear things like "Yeah, that guy's a Manion. Just stay clear in case he accidentally hoses the room with toxic waste." Which I did once, but it was an accident.

LM

Spherical Chickens

There is an urban legend that KFC was attempting to genetically engineer spherical chickens. The idea was that they're easier to raise, have more meat, and less risk of pecking each other to death. Supposedly that's why they changed their name to KFC - if the critters they're cooking aren't technically chickens, they can't use the word in their name.

Turns out the whole thing's completely bogus, but it got me thinking. The idea of genetically modified sphere chickens probably makes most animal rights activists apoplectic, but I say, "It's about time." This is what science is all about.

I would love to have a spherical chicken. It dates back to these blown glass chickens I once saw in a gallery. It seemed to capture the very essence of chicken-ness. A sphere, with a beak on one end and a tail on the other. I've included a picture of them below. Are those cool or what?



Mrs. Manion later gave me one as a gift. It occupies a prominent place in our dining room. Normally, I'm not really a knick-knack kind of guy. I'd much rather have a reciprocating saw than a collectible figurine.

But the idea of a true spherical chicken is the coolest thing. I have a vision of thousands of them rolling gracefully over hills and valleys, clucking madly. Sure, they couldn't fly, but regular chickens aren't exactly hot in the flight department either. You wouldn't even know what end of the chicken was what until an egg or something came out one end or the other. I see thousand of blindingly white, melon-sized spheres, dominating the landscape, nesting, with little ping-pong ball eggs.

To defend themselves from predators, they would roll all over them. Like super-sized tribbles or something. They'd be almost impossible to catch or kill. How do you go for the throat on an animal that doesn't have one? How do you know what direction it's going to run?

I've begun experimenting, using methods originally developed for Bonsai kittens. My hope is to have a registered breed by Christmas. Not sure what I'll call them. Sphickens, maybe?

I'll keep you posted.

LM

Job Hunting the Manion Way

I was inspired to write this by the ever Beck-like Roundelay. According to the dictionary, a Roundelay is "A poem or song with a regularly recurring refrain." Ya learn something new every day. Congrats on your regularity, Roundelay.

As most of our readers will likely be job searching at some point or other, feel free to clip and save these little gems of wisdom. Now some of these are software specific. That's where I work and what I know. But feel free to try to apply them to wherever you're going.

Resume Tips

Remember, your resume is your introduction to your potential new employer. Make sure it's a positive impression.

• These days everything is electronic. Just know that whatever format you choose to send in, you're going to annoy them. Seriously. I've send in everything from text, doc, rtf, pdf, and some really obscure formats. No matter what you send, they'll ask you to try again.
• When possible, attach a virus - employers love it when you test their defenses.
• List every piece of software you've ever heard of - you can fake it until you learn it. If they question your initial clumisness, tell them you used a different version.

Interview Tips

Okay, your resume got you in. Now you've got to convince them that you're worth the outrageous sums of money you're going to demand.

• Be hungover - A good hangover gives you that added gravitas and ensures that your answers will be brief. Don't go overboard, though. Spewing on your interviewer is hard to recover from. I learned that lesson the hard way.
• If you have time, trigger a security lockdown - I did this for Pfizer, once. It was shortly after they took away my badge, that they realized I was wandering around unescorted in an area full of potentially lethal pathogens. It was a hoot and we all had a good laugh later. Plus they hired me! Really!
• Leave some quirky items on your resume - Me, I leave on the gig I had blowing up cars for movies. If they think it's interesting and cool, then we're on the same page. If they think it's inappropriate to leave that on a resume for an unrelated gig, I go outside and blow up their cars. Then we talk some more about who decides what's inappropriate.
• Be sure to ask their policy about workplace intoxication - in the interview you should laugh this question off, but still get an answer. You'll need it later.
• Bring extra resumes to the interview - Use them to demonstrate your paper airplane skillz.

Followup Tips

The interview's done. You think it went well. Here's how you seal the deal and get that happy phone call.

• Thank you note - Make sure to remember everyone's name. Even as a professional writer, I have a hard time fudging the whole, "Thanks to Sarah, Luis, and that twitchy little guy who works in QA, you know, the one obsessed with Babylon 5, that guy, for an interesting and informative interview." If you really can't remember, just squiggle something illegible, or squash a bug on that part of the page. Either way.
• Really personal photos - Show them the whole package, as it were. Companies like to know what they're getting. If you can do any special tricks, like things with little weights, include a video.

Negotiating the Offer

They've made the offer. Here's how you handle it.

• Reject the first offer - Nobody ever opens with their best offer. They'll always go up by about 4k if you hit them right.
• Hit them right - Preferably with a length of 2x4. Some prefer the more solid heft of 2x6, but I like the maneuverability of 2x4.
• If all else fails, point out that the whole blowing up cars thing could easily be applied to the cars of certain family members.
• Don't be afraid to reject their offer completely - You read my blog, which means you're already vastly more happening than the squizillions of mouth breathers who would rather visit someone else's blog. Write to me and I'll send you a complimentary bag of airline peanuts or something.

By following these steps you've pretty much guaranteed yourself an offer of at least 715k. Hey, they don't call us Mercenary Words for nothing.

LM

PS. We're out of regular Diet Coke here at Penetrode, Inc. I'm forced to drink the vanilla flavored swill. The day begins poorly.

Look Out! Manions!

So here you go. My first posted photo.



Check it out. It's a picture of most of the various Manions. We're notoriously camera shy. I, unfortunately, am holding the camera. This was taken Christmas Eve at my parents' house about three years ago. The tractor is named Baby Blue. My brother Sonny Crockett is in the green jacket. The picture was taken shortly before his arrest on "Goat Defilement" charges.

LM

The Sqealing Pig

So when we were hanging out in P-town, we hung out a lot at an Irish bar called the Squealing Pig. None of us had the guts to ask how they came up with that name. We also were smart enough to clear out before "Leather Night" started.

But it got me thinking about Irish bars. I like them. A lot. Where else in the world are binge drinking and and sudden violent outbursts not only acceptable, but expected? Well, okay, there's also Irish wakes, but you can't have one of those every week, even in catholic families.

The Squealing Pig was a good bar. They played drinking songs and had an actual, honest-to-god Irish bartender. The only fault I can find with the place was that the bartender wasn't surly. In American Irish bars, true Irish bartenders are almost always surly. I guess they're pissed that they're stuck being bartenders in the US. I dunno.

But back to the topic at hand. For me a perfect evening is throwing back a few pints of Harp (I was really pissed when Guiness et al started making it in Canada. Imported my ass.) and singing some Irish drinking songs. On a really good night, a fight breaks out.

Irish bars seem to bring it out in people. A buddy of mine, Roger, who's a professor at Boston College, got into a fight with a guy over Andersen Consulting. A real fight. Over a consulting company. Fists were thrown and everything. Roger lost. Of course, the fact that he's blind probably had something to do with it. But he fought in an Irish bar. That's the important thing.

Anyway, back to the Pig. A good place. They kept running out of beer, though. Strange behavior in a bar. Anyway, check it out, and sing a rousing chorus of Danny Boy for me.

LM

Back Atcha!

So we're back from P-Town. I'd have posted sooner, but Seamus ended up burning the house down in an attempt to fake his own death. It might have worked, but his disguise included a prostetic nose that was, it turns out, quite flammable.

He's now in the ICU.

In the mean time, I'd like to share with you some thoughts about P-town.

Don't buy cock flavored dog treats for your Labrador

I can't stress this one enough. It's why I put it first, for my short attention span readers. One guy I saw had these. I mean, this is just begging for one of those incredibly hard to explain visits to the emergency room. Of all the things you could train your dog to eat, you're choosing the great refreshing taste of your own crank?! Nothing good is going to come out of a decision like that.

Every loser has a story

My father said this to us the night before we all went fishing. He wanted us to be optimistic about our fishing trip the next day. We caught nothing. Fortunately, these losers also had backup reservations at the Mews. I highly recommend their seared ahi special.

Drag!

I'd never seen a drag show, but really felt that a visit to P-town was not complete without some guy dressed up as Cher belting out show tunes. I was not disappointed. We caught Varla Jean Merman in "I'm not Paying for This!" and Randy Roberts in an impressive medley of impersonations. I had hoped to see a Streisand too, but you work with what you have. Both were excellent. Varla was funnier, whereas Randy was more of your traditional show tunes experience.

Geocaching

This is one of those new hobbies where somebody places a cache of trinkets out in the woods and posts the longitude and latitude of the cache. You then get out your GPS receiver and go to the location, take a trinket, replace it with one you brought, and sign the log book.
In practice, it's getting lost (we were still figuring out the GPS), detouring through the dunes, and ending in the most mosquito infested swamp this side of Vietnam. Eventually we did find the cache, though. I'm thinking of putting on one our property. Lets let somebody else feed the mosquitos for a change.

So there you go. I even managed to avoid getting horribly sunburned or hungover. Life is good.

LM