In July of last year, I posted a hopeful and optimistic note regarding your friends, Horatio and Cornelius. It was a different time; a time of dreaming, of looking to the future with anticipation, and with a small twinkle in my eye, a time of excitement.
In the last several months, that twinkle turned into a full-fledged burning spire of hopeful visions of grandeur, a bonfire the likes of which no mortal has yet seen. We planned to bring Horatio & Cornelius to you in new, untold ways, to satiate our readers in a way that would let all of us bathe in the riches of words and epic stories. Behind the scenes we wrote, we crafted, we transcribed, we ate lots of cookies, and we spun gold. To bring these tales to you in new and creative ways, we obtained online real estate, and developed a plan. Yes, a plan. That thing that, without, would cause any venture to crash and burn, then sink to the deepest depths of the Arctic's coldest waters.
Yet... even with a plan... some endeavors fail. This failure's reason is not completely known. We had hopes and dreams, and maybe that was the failure. We had the infrastructure, and maybe that was the failure. We were one step away from the next part, and maybe that was the failure. We may never know.
Alas, I, Horatio, am now alone. My beloved friend, confidant, BFF, bail poster, supporter, fan and master chef, Cornelius, has abandoned me and this little home in the ether. We thought we could make something spectacular happen, but something, somewhere, went wrong... and to that reason I am not privy.
So, from this point, I do not know my destiny to our readers. I know not where this road leads. It may lead through winding, jungle-overrun muck, forks, highways... it may take me alone, introduce me to new friends along the way, or dare say, it may lead me back to Cornelius... or he to me. Will I even recognize my comrade if we walk into the same barber on some remote island floating in the Straits of Gibraltar? I do not know.
Time will tell. Time will tell.
I leave you with this blessing that I heard in the Sahara one pleasantly warm afternoon while supping with an indigenous tribe of sand-worshippers...
"May the timepieces of Mork proclaim your name, may the locks of Wayne Newton whisper your direction, and may the umbrellas of Holland shade your past."
I bid you all a temporary adieu, and thank you all for your queries of our health and well-being. We shall soon meet again, in some form or another.
With tears,
Horatio
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
The Jungles and Before
Hello my friends.
I have been gone for months, and I apologize to all of you for not saying "so long", as that is what this simply is, not a "good bye" at all. I currently have been able to send this communication to you purely by the luck of good atmospheric conditions. Where I am, there is no internet connectivity at all, and I have no access to satellite uplinks, orbiting spacecraft or carrier pigeons. Well I did have the pigeons, but they continually shredded my papyrus, and hands for that matter, every time I tried to tie a note to their little pigeon ankles... or would that be pankles? Regardless, the locals would not help, as they fled screaming into the trees and lighting themselves on fire each and every time one of these seven-foot pigeons would show itself.
So how am I sending this? Well, I currently am receiving a wifi signal that is bouncing off of the stratosphere and funelling down through the small circular opening in the clouds just perfectly to my hPhoneV8. Lucky for me I can type 784 words per minute with my thumbs. No, it is not a world record, as I have not been able to achieve that extra word. Some day... but a boy can dream, can he not?
I know you are also wondering about the similarity in name to the "iPhone", and no that was not a typo at all. This particular culture that I have come in contact with has phenomenal technological know-how, yet keeps themselves cut off from the rest of the world, and do not use toilet paper based on principle. They named this device the hPhoneV8 because it is their 16th iteration of their molecular phone / music player / internet (which they call "Luther") hybrid device. They started with the "aPhone", then "bPhone" and onward. Unfortunately when they got to "h" in the alphabet, they ran out of letters in succession. You see, 33 years ago, their king, King Jameson Bartholemew Radnow Gustafssen Boner Archibald Westwardbreeze Tom Fangdazzlebroad was alerted that his servents were making fun of his name. After three years of intense name inspection, Lord Tom (he changed his name) realized it was the letter "i" in "Archibald" that was causing himself such torment. So on Aprl 28th of that year, Lord Tom outlawed each and every "i" in his kngdom.
Thus the conundrum for the potential follow-up to the overly-successful hPhone. I am able to use this device only for a very short amount of time to communicate with Luther. But I digress.
I am currently in the Moravian jungles, in pursuit of the extremely elusive, yet tantalizingly familiar, three-toed leaping spider. I did not set out on this journey intentionally or with aplomb, but simply, as many of my great adventures, by complete and total stupidity.
On a breezy Thursday morning, I awoke with a slight twinge of pain coming from my right foot. Upon further inspection, I revealed I had a hang nail. I flew into a panicked frenzy and eventually realized I needed to depart my surroundings and seek happiness that will allow me the perfect freedom and rapture.
After leaving Dunkin Donuts full of rapture, I dropped a penny from my change. Said penny might just be the 2003 "D" penny that would complete my vast collection of American pennies post-1999. I ran after it (of course I was on a hill), for two blocks, my caffe macchiato scorching my hands along the way. It finally came to rest next to the tire of an old, beat-up car. I stooped and picked it up, and though it was a 2003 penny, alas it was not my elusive "D".
Not one to either litter nor waste money, I slid the penny in my pocket. Upon removing my hand, my watch caught my belt, which pulled upward and caught my hand holding the caffe macchiato cup, which caused me to lose my grip. As I tried to catch the cup, my watch-belt caught hand pulled on the belt, which dislodged from my pants, and the almost-full cup hit the ground a fraction of a second before my pants. Through the laws of liquid dynamics, which I will not get into here, the full contents of the caffe macchiato launched towards my very exposed, yet supple, skin. My gnat-like reflexes allowed me to dodge the invading fluid, but unfortunately I was unaware of my surroundings, and I was launched directly into the side of a bike messenger.
We both careened to the ground in a pile of metal, skin and spandex (and no, this does not involve my trusted friend Cornelius as you would expect). The bike messenger looked up at me in a very tender way, fighting through what must surely be much pain, and through her beautiful, pouty lips, she screamed like a banshee at me. Stumbling backward, I tripped over my pants, now tangled around my man-slippers and fell. She came at me, and the last I remember is her standing over me with a bent tire and her water bottle.
I awoke here in the jungles, dressed in a very stylish zoot suit, with a note in my pocket that read, "If you want to live, you have 18.65 hours to find the three-toed leaping spider."
Yours in Nebuchadnezzar,
Horatio
I have been gone for months, and I apologize to all of you for not saying "so long", as that is what this simply is, not a "good bye" at all. I currently have been able to send this communication to you purely by the luck of good atmospheric conditions. Where I am, there is no internet connectivity at all, and I have no access to satellite uplinks, orbiting spacecraft or carrier pigeons. Well I did have the pigeons, but they continually shredded my papyrus, and hands for that matter, every time I tried to tie a note to their little pigeon ankles... or would that be pankles? Regardless, the locals would not help, as they fled screaming into the trees and lighting themselves on fire each and every time one of these seven-foot pigeons would show itself.
So how am I sending this? Well, I currently am receiving a wifi signal that is bouncing off of the stratosphere and funelling down through the small circular opening in the clouds just perfectly to my hPhoneV8. Lucky for me I can type 784 words per minute with my thumbs. No, it is not a world record, as I have not been able to achieve that extra word. Some day... but a boy can dream, can he not?
I know you are also wondering about the similarity in name to the "iPhone", and no that was not a typo at all. This particular culture that I have come in contact with has phenomenal technological know-how, yet keeps themselves cut off from the rest of the world, and do not use toilet paper based on principle. They named this device the hPhoneV8 because it is their 16th iteration of their molecular phone / music player / internet (which they call "Luther") hybrid device. They started with the "aPhone", then "bPhone" and onward. Unfortunately when they got to "h" in the alphabet, they ran out of letters in succession. You see, 33 years ago, their king, King Jameson Bartholemew Radnow Gustafssen Boner Archibald Westwardbreeze Tom Fangdazzlebroad was alerted that his servents were making fun of his name. After three years of intense name inspection, Lord Tom (he changed his name) realized it was the letter "i" in "Archibald" that was causing himself such torment. So on Aprl 28th of that year, Lord Tom outlawed each and every "i" in his kngdom.
Thus the conundrum for the potential follow-up to the overly-successful hPhone. I am able to use this device only for a very short amount of time to communicate with Luther. But I digress.
I am currently in the Moravian jungles, in pursuit of the extremely elusive, yet tantalizingly familiar, three-toed leaping spider. I did not set out on this journey intentionally or with aplomb, but simply, as many of my great adventures, by complete and total stupidity.
On a breezy Thursday morning, I awoke with a slight twinge of pain coming from my right foot. Upon further inspection, I revealed I had a hang nail. I flew into a panicked frenzy and eventually realized I needed to depart my surroundings and seek happiness that will allow me the perfect freedom and rapture.
After leaving Dunkin Donuts full of rapture, I dropped a penny from my change. Said penny might just be the 2003 "D" penny that would complete my vast collection of American pennies post-1999. I ran after it (of course I was on a hill), for two blocks, my caffe macchiato scorching my hands along the way. It finally came to rest next to the tire of an old, beat-up car. I stooped and picked it up, and though it was a 2003 penny, alas it was not my elusive "D".
Not one to either litter nor waste money, I slid the penny in my pocket. Upon removing my hand, my watch caught my belt, which pulled upward and caught my hand holding the caffe macchiato cup, which caused me to lose my grip. As I tried to catch the cup, my watch-belt caught hand pulled on the belt, which dislodged from my pants, and the almost-full cup hit the ground a fraction of a second before my pants. Through the laws of liquid dynamics, which I will not get into here, the full contents of the caffe macchiato launched towards my very exposed, yet supple, skin. My gnat-like reflexes allowed me to dodge the invading fluid, but unfortunately I was unaware of my surroundings, and I was launched directly into the side of a bike messenger.
We both careened to the ground in a pile of metal, skin and spandex (and no, this does not involve my trusted friend Cornelius as you would expect). The bike messenger looked up at me in a very tender way, fighting through what must surely be much pain, and through her beautiful, pouty lips, she screamed like a banshee at me. Stumbling backward, I tripped over my pants, now tangled around my man-slippers and fell. She came at me, and the last I remember is her standing over me with a bent tire and her water bottle.
I awoke here in the jungles, dressed in a very stylish zoot suit, with a note in my pocket that read, "If you want to live, you have 18.65 hours to find the three-toed leaping spider."
Yours in Nebuchadnezzar,
Horatio
Friday, July 13, 2007
"We're not dead yet.."
To our tens of fans,
As much as I hate to admit this, Horatio is a complete slacker. I know, I know. You are shocked by this wild and unsubstantiated accusation. Hear me out. I mean, look at this blog. Our last post was in freaking January?!?!?!? Are you kidding myself???? On a daily basis, I supply Horatio with material worthy of the now-defunct Jimmie Walker show, let alone this irreverent blog. But does he post it? Nooooooooooooooooooo. But, I am sure that you already knew this as evident by the fact that in terms of blog rankings based on how often they are updated, ours ranks directly behind the Elvis Sightings blog and right ahead of The Chris Benoit Family Blog.
Anyway, I have decided to take matters into my own capable, yet gnarled and arthritic hands and update you, our dedicated fan, on what is going on in the world of Horcorn. As of now, Horatio is attempting to set up a network at home which will include a studio of sorts for creating podcasts. He FINALLY appears to have listened to me as I have told him many, many times, I still think that this whole "internet" thing is going to catch on, and we should try to be in position to "ride the wave", so to speak, to international acclaim and financial independance. However, if you've ever had the pleasure of watching Horatio try to untangle his Christmas lights every year, which he astutely keeps in the same box as his antique bales of barbed wire and cyclone fence, the thought of him trying to construct a home LAN is downright laughable. So, we are at the mercy of his dogged determination (which is dangerously fed by Red Bull by the gallon and a fancy for cocoa-covered expresso beans). On the periphery, we are planning to continue our writing efforts, which is kinda critical due to the fact that what we write is going to be the content of our podcasts. It is sorta like robbing Peter to pay Paul - I think that is a valid comparison.
To make a long story short, we are working on alot of shee-ite right now, so please stay tuned!!!
Cornelius
As much as I hate to admit this, Horatio is a complete slacker. I know, I know. You are shocked by this wild and unsubstantiated accusation. Hear me out. I mean, look at this blog. Our last post was in freaking January?!?!?!? Are you kidding myself???? On a daily basis, I supply Horatio with material worthy of the now-defunct Jimmie Walker show, let alone this irreverent blog. But does he post it? Nooooooooooooooooooo. But, I am sure that you already knew this as evident by the fact that in terms of blog rankings based on how often they are updated, ours ranks directly behind the Elvis Sightings blog and right ahead of The Chris Benoit Family Blog.
Anyway, I have decided to take matters into my own capable, yet gnarled and arthritic hands and update you, our dedicated fan, on what is going on in the world of Horcorn. As of now, Horatio is attempting to set up a network at home which will include a studio of sorts for creating podcasts. He FINALLY appears to have listened to me as I have told him many, many times, I still think that this whole "internet" thing is going to catch on, and we should try to be in position to "ride the wave", so to speak, to international acclaim and financial independance. However, if you've ever had the pleasure of watching Horatio try to untangle his Christmas lights every year, which he astutely keeps in the same box as his antique bales of barbed wire and cyclone fence, the thought of him trying to construct a home LAN is downright laughable. So, we are at the mercy of his dogged determination (which is dangerously fed by Red Bull by the gallon and a fancy for cocoa-covered expresso beans). On the periphery, we are planning to continue our writing efforts, which is kinda critical due to the fact that what we write is going to be the content of our podcasts. It is sorta like robbing Peter to pay Paul - I think that is a valid comparison.
To make a long story short, we are working on alot of shee-ite right now, so please stay tuned!!!
Cornelius
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
A Horatio and Cornelius Collaboration
Ladies and Gentlemen,
We have been away, but have returned, and have fought viciously to write the next entry to this illustrious blog. After weeks of rehabilitation, reconstructive surgery and returned checks,
we have decided to make the next entry, together. Using the power and force of the Internet, we create the following simple story, taking turns in our venture. Enjoy, but blame Cornelius if it goes awry.
The Hit, by H&C
The squishy feeling underneath Hank's muddy, scab-encrusted feet was quite troublesome to him, as he began to traverse the Grand Ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria. Ahead in the crowd he spotted his prey, an ancient woman, slowly limping forward on her walker, pockmarked and ashen, easily the most beautiful woman in the room. He knew his mission was to eliminate her in the most awe-inspiring way possible, but her jaw-dropping beauty combined with her wretched stench gave his heart pause. Moving into an obviously perfect position, Hank raised his Sumatran-made Khanberg Special .38 toothpick ejector and took aim. Through the laser-scope, he noticed her eye looked like a perfect red-pitted green olive, so beautiful in its solitude. Shaking the urge to head for the bar for his signature Glamour Girl Martini, he pulls the trigger, just as his bladder lets loose.
This was not the first time that his excretory system comprised his actions in a catastrophic manner. Once, in the jungles of Islamabad, he had been hunting the famed ferret felcher, Ferdinand Finkleton. For two months, he quietly rolled through the swamps in a World War II Sherman tank, and when he entered the remote village known as "Malaka Taint Chi", he simply could not believe how sexually aroused he was. Pushing away the need to deflower every female simian within 78 clicks, he wound up disabling his own tank, while at the same time making it useless as a playground for the local younglings. Ensuring that the government-issued 75mm M61 tank rounds were safely hidden in a pile of "used" kleenex within the tank, Hank proceeded on foot to complete his mission. Luckily, Finkleton was not far, as he was searching for the animal he thought he heard screaming only moments before. As Hank approached Finkleton from the East, he heard footsteps and some mumbling behind him, so he blindly spun around to confront who, or what, was trailing him. As he turned, his foot caught on a rubber tree root, his hands dropped the fishing line / gauze / toaster oven contraption of death he planned to use on Finkleton and he stumbled forward in horror, as the benefit of hindsight was mocking his decision to leave his pants in the tank as well. Kneeling on the ground in his path was an elderly village woman, peering up at his tumbling, disjointed body as if he were the ancient spirit that, legend holds, would return to their modest village and bestow upon all the denizens... indoor plumbing. To both of their astonishment, Hank drunkenly stumbled forward, startled at the woman's presence, her wretched stench, and his still bulbous phallus, and fell on top of her, his hips to her head... punishing her glinting, hopeful eye. Panic quickly ensued as he withdrew his pork sword from her ocular cavity while she screeched in agony, thus drawing the attention of Finkleton - who, in the afternoon light, bore a striking resemblance to the woman... minus the gaping hole in her skull. Hank's hysteria at his situation compounded again when he realized that not only might Finkleton escape, not only did he not introduce himself to this cyclops at his feet, but that Finkleton was also charging him with a jewel-encrusted machete! Fear had engulfed him now, paralyzed in the path of a charging madman hell-bent on revenge for violating the old woman's orbital bone, as well as the "Hungry, Hungry Hippos" incident that ended their friendship years before while in college. He now understood, in one cacaphonous moment, that he was a pawn of PETA, (whom he offended years earlier when he was caught flushing his not-quite-dead tetra down the toilet), not the world's leading super-secret spy and government agent that he was led to believe he was only two weeks ago. Fleeing the scene, he realized that he had closed one door (the elimination of Ferdinand was no longer necessary) but had opened another (the inevitable next meeting with the elderly woman, because for some reason he knew that she would relentlessly pursue vindication against him, probably because the woman was writhing on the jungle floor yelling, "I WILL PURSUE VINDICATION AGAINST YOU!!!!").
Snapping back into reality at the Waldorf while wading in his own urine, Hank gazed into the eye of the crypt-keeper clone once more and thought to himself, "My Gawd, she looks familiar....."Wednesday, September 06, 2006
End of an Era
Our lives have changed. Ever so suddenly, ever so bittersweetly. Cornelius and I have been away for a very long time from this online haven for the depraved, bored and obscene. Much has happened to us, much that we cannot disclose for the safety of Formicidae the world over. But trust is among us within these pages, and it is time to share but a bit of our experiences. Read on only if you wish, as you're never forced to play any of our reindeer games.
Previously, our world revolved around one place, one company. It shall remain nameless because we wouldn't want to be sued or be painted bitter. It was the greatest company in the world, and all of our clients and vendors should model themselves on it. That was the attitude of the President of the company, let's call him Insane for brevity's sake. Actually, it wasn't really his attitude, that's unfair... those were his real words. It is said that some folks balance on the tightrope of brilliance and insanity, sometimes leaning more on one side before balance again wins. Insane fell off of that oh-so-thin rope, plummeted through miles of dense fog and landed forehead deep in the dark blue muck on one of those sides. I won't say which.
I will not bore you with the financials of this nameless company (millions more in revenue year after year, with a profit margin any financial analyst would check thrice to see if it was true), or the happiness of the employees (stellar salary, retirement, perks and benefits, not to mention almost no turnover), or even client satisfaction, spotless Quality record (see, this one's important as this industry is regulated, and lives are at stake) or the new state-of-the-art building that will boast the most advanced laboratories, manufacturing and information technology (wink wink) structure in the industry. No, I will entertain you with decisions made by Insane himself, with some side stories that are the result of them. Hold on to your codpieces.
Well to start off, it's a small company, just short of 50 indentured servants. There were three Directors, each heading the major departments, and all co-owners and founders with Insane as well. Insane's first major decision (stunt?) was hiring a new Director of Administration. We will call her Dipshit for brevity's sake. Dipshit's "training" was in the financial realm with absolutely no experience in administration or Human Resources, and to top it off, she had never worked in a regulated industry, such as, say, pharmaceutical manufacturing. Oh yeah, Dipshit was never interviewed by the other three Directors... she just kind of started.
Well the happy employees now had someone to trust and count on for all things relating to HR, thanks to Insane's hiring of Dipshit. She was always on top of things when asked for anything HR related, and would get back to the happy employees within days or weeks, sometimes twice because the original information was incorrect. One of the first things Dipshit did of any importance was to hire an Office Manager with financial background training (yes, I know, redundancy at its best). You see, Dipshit couldn't really work on the finances for the company (as expected upon her hire), because she was much, much too busy taking out garbage, assembling furniture, shagging Insane's son, who we will call Bonehead for brevity's sake, ordering lunches and not much else. But I digress.
Insane decided that the happy employees were not working hard enough for him, despite the minimum ten hour workdays, huge profit margins and happy clients. Insane, with the help of Dipshit, started to change things. Basically anyone that Dipshit didn't like, because they caught her and Bonehead in a compromising position, or was more attractive than her, or was well-liked in the company, was let go. And Dipshit herself was not at any of the exit interviews of those terminated or resigned. Yes, the happy employees started resigning, some not even for other jobs. In ten months, the company lost two Directors, two Managers, at least seven full-timers and easily a dozen others (temps to hire).
Well there's some background for ya.
There are so many stories to tell, it's easy to lose track...
Stories like how Bonehead spilled battery acid, but Dipshit spun it so it was blamed blatantly on another.
Stories like how Dipshit repeatedly showed up at meetings with horribly incorrect financial numbers (remember the financial background???), or simply stared out the window and said nothing.
Stories like how Insane stood in front of the company praising the new "billable hours tracking" as a way of correctly billing clients and how it would not be used against the happy employees, and only two weeks later used it (incorrectly on top of it) against a happy employee.
Stories like how Dipshit spread a rumor about two happy employees' romantic involvement (1. false 2. remember Bonehead?) and three days later Insane threatened to fire anyone involved in rumors.
Stories like how a client praised the company and happy employees at a project closing meeting in front of Insane and the three real Directors, only to have Insane bash the happy employees for constantly making mistakes.
...Ahh, so many good times.
Well now neither Cornelius nor myself are still at the nameless company. We feel confident that Insane is still paranoid, Dipshit is doing something trivial or Bonehead, and the company is losing money. Cornelius has moved on to manage a herd of estranged bison while having more time for his hobbies such as cubicle fabric design and measuring various lengths of string. I have gone out on my own to explore the world's napkin factories and photographing the flight of grass blades inside hurricanes.
We aspire to work again together, to make a difference, to bring our unique combination of axle assembly and paperclip straightening to new heights. This epic has shown our struggle, our strife, our shitty times. Do not fret, we have overcome! We will continue to document our experiences and share with you all that is Horatio and Cornelius.
Previously, our world revolved around one place, one company. It shall remain nameless because we wouldn't want to be sued or be painted bitter. It was the greatest company in the world, and all of our clients and vendors should model themselves on it. That was the attitude of the President of the company, let's call him Insane for brevity's sake. Actually, it wasn't really his attitude, that's unfair... those were his real words. It is said that some folks balance on the tightrope of brilliance and insanity, sometimes leaning more on one side before balance again wins. Insane fell off of that oh-so-thin rope, plummeted through miles of dense fog and landed forehead deep in the dark blue muck on one of those sides. I won't say which.
I will not bore you with the financials of this nameless company (millions more in revenue year after year, with a profit margin any financial analyst would check thrice to see if it was true), or the happiness of the employees (stellar salary, retirement, perks and benefits, not to mention almost no turnover), or even client satisfaction, spotless Quality record (see, this one's important as this industry is regulated, and lives are at stake) or the new state-of-the-art building that will boast the most advanced laboratories, manufacturing and information technology (wink wink) structure in the industry. No, I will entertain you with decisions made by Insane himself, with some side stories that are the result of them. Hold on to your codpieces.
Well to start off, it's a small company, just short of 50 indentured servants. There were three Directors, each heading the major departments, and all co-owners and founders with Insane as well. Insane's first major decision (stunt?) was hiring a new Director of Administration. We will call her Dipshit for brevity's sake. Dipshit's "training" was in the financial realm with absolutely no experience in administration or Human Resources, and to top it off, she had never worked in a regulated industry, such as, say, pharmaceutical manufacturing. Oh yeah, Dipshit was never interviewed by the other three Directors... she just kind of started.
Well the happy employees now had someone to trust and count on for all things relating to HR, thanks to Insane's hiring of Dipshit. She was always on top of things when asked for anything HR related, and would get back to the happy employees within days or weeks, sometimes twice because the original information was incorrect. One of the first things Dipshit did of any importance was to hire an Office Manager with financial background training (yes, I know, redundancy at its best). You see, Dipshit couldn't really work on the finances for the company (as expected upon her hire), because she was much, much too busy taking out garbage, assembling furniture, shagging Insane's son, who we will call Bonehead for brevity's sake, ordering lunches and not much else. But I digress.
Insane decided that the happy employees were not working hard enough for him, despite the minimum ten hour workdays, huge profit margins and happy clients. Insane, with the help of Dipshit, started to change things. Basically anyone that Dipshit didn't like, because they caught her and Bonehead in a compromising position, or was more attractive than her, or was well-liked in the company, was let go. And Dipshit herself was not at any of the exit interviews of those terminated or resigned. Yes, the happy employees started resigning, some not even for other jobs. In ten months, the company lost two Directors, two Managers, at least seven full-timers and easily a dozen others (temps to hire).
Well there's some background for ya.
There are so many stories to tell, it's easy to lose track...
Stories like how Bonehead spilled battery acid, but Dipshit spun it so it was blamed blatantly on another.
Stories like how Dipshit repeatedly showed up at meetings with horribly incorrect financial numbers (remember the financial background???), or simply stared out the window and said nothing.
Stories like how Insane stood in front of the company praising the new "billable hours tracking" as a way of correctly billing clients and how it would not be used against the happy employees, and only two weeks later used it (incorrectly on top of it) against a happy employee.
Stories like how Dipshit spread a rumor about two happy employees' romantic involvement (1. false 2. remember Bonehead?) and three days later Insane threatened to fire anyone involved in rumors.
Stories like how a client praised the company and happy employees at a project closing meeting in front of Insane and the three real Directors, only to have Insane bash the happy employees for constantly making mistakes.
...Ahh, so many good times.
Well now neither Cornelius nor myself are still at the nameless company. We feel confident that Insane is still paranoid, Dipshit is doing something trivial or Bonehead, and the company is losing money. Cornelius has moved on to manage a herd of estranged bison while having more time for his hobbies such as cubicle fabric design and measuring various lengths of string. I have gone out on my own to explore the world's napkin factories and photographing the flight of grass blades inside hurricanes.
We aspire to work again together, to make a difference, to bring our unique combination of axle assembly and paperclip straightening to new heights. This epic has shown our struggle, our strife, our shitty times. Do not fret, we have overcome! We will continue to document our experiences and share with you all that is Horatio and Cornelius.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Please heed my warning!!
Shelley,
Listen, I have something I have to tell you about Aruba. Some people call it urban legend, but I have been there. I know. You mentioned that Darren, and I quote, "always has to have some type of city to explore". Although I applaud his exploratory spirit, in Aruba it could get you both into situations that defy explanation. I hope you understand where I am going with this. Oh, yes. The supernatural. I was not a believer, until I visited Aruba. For it is definitely super, and it is DEFINITELY not natural. The downtown area in the capital of Aruba is pretty cool, to the uninformed casual observer. The truth of it all is that the whole island is teeming with the evil spirits of the ancestral founders of the island. The locals like to tell you that Aruba is "One Happy Island", that everyone relaxes, has a few drinks, and Aruba becomes this instant utopia for all who visit. I prefer to do my own research. For the love of everything Holy, I wish I hadn't. The folklore that you do not normally hear about is what I would like to share. One night, I set out to gain knowledge which would hopefully explain the vibrant, almost electric, sensations I was experiencing from the moment we landed in Aruba. Initially, I thought it was the Ecstasy tablets that I took when we left Miami International that I washed down with some Jose Cuervo, but that definitely was not it. No, something was wrong on the island, and I needed to know what it was. My carefully crafted questions led me to a dilapidated lean-to in the dark side of town, where I was instructed to knock thrice on the rusty, corrugated piece of sheet metal that was serving as a door. What followed shook me to my very soul. A man slid the "door" to the side, revealing the one room which comprised the entire dwelling. Furniture that was not made with driftwood and used chewing gum was made entirely of wicker. The walls were completely covered in indigenous artifacts, skulls of various animals, and velvet posters of Elvis and of puppies playing poker. Illuminating the room were roughly 43 candles, strategically placed to scare the darkness away from all corners, as well as to create a strange combination odor of lilac, cinnamon, sea water, and otter droppings. The man looked at me, and as the candlelight reflected in his one glass eye, said, "Please come in. Would you like a roofie?" After debating this internally for about 7 seconds, I politely declined. I extended my hand, and said, "My name is Eric, and I come seeking knowledge." He turned towards me as if to shake my hand but unfortunately could not, as his hand was missing and in its place was a 4-pronged garden rake bound to his infected forearm stump with neon green twine and a torn neoprene sleeve. He said, "My name is Juan Encarcion Jose Jiminez Lugo Menendez Smith, but you can call me Vicki". He then turned from me and shuffled towards the middle of the room, which was painful to watch as his legs were not human legs but makeshift limbs; one was an ironing board stapled to his hip and the other was a well-traveled bowling pin. After collapsing into a chair he motioned for me to do the same, gesturing towards the wicker chaise lounger directly across from him. As our eyes met, he stared at me intently. After about 35 minutes (in which he did blink once) he said to me, "You come regarding unsettling vibrations you feel, no?" As I slowly nodded, partially out of fear, and partially because my whole body had fallen asleep due to the odd angle my spine was perched at, he nodded in agreement. He said, "I will tell you everything. For some reason, I feel I can trust you, plus your cologne is simply enchanting. Is it Polo, or Obsession by Calvin Klein?" This thoroughly confused me, as I was not wearing any cologne and at one point while walking that night I had my leg peed on my a stray lemur. I did not have the heart to tell him this, so I simply said "Polo". Again, he nodded satisfactorily, proud of his perceived olfactory prowess. He leaned towards me, and began to whisper "Closer, closer" while motioning for me to lean in as well. As we approached each other, he kept whispering "closer, closer" over and over. Then, all of a sudden. Bonk! We bumped heads. He recoiled in horror, shouting "Too close!". He then ordered me out of his house. I attempted to apologize, as well as protest my ejection. But it was all for naught. When I stepped out into the dark, he shouted, "Eric, you yankee infidel!" As I spun in excited anticipation, hoping that maybe he had changed his mind and was going to invite me back in, he spat on my chest and threw six rotting kumquats at my feet, then slammed the metal sheet shut. In the distance, I heard a bleating goat. Which was almost immediately followed by the sound of a pack of wolves tearing the goat limb from limb. I returned to the hotel, had two strawberry and banana daiquiris, and ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, with explicit instructions to cut it into triangles and not two rectangles. Five days later, we flew home. So please, be very careful.
Cornelius
Listen, I have something I have to tell you about Aruba. Some people call it urban legend, but I have been there. I know. You mentioned that Darren, and I quote, "always has to have some type of city to explore". Although I applaud his exploratory spirit, in Aruba it could get you both into situations that defy explanation. I hope you understand where I am going with this. Oh, yes. The supernatural. I was not a believer, until I visited Aruba. For it is definitely super, and it is DEFINITELY not natural. The downtown area in the capital of Aruba is pretty cool, to the uninformed casual observer. The truth of it all is that the whole island is teeming with the evil spirits of the ancestral founders of the island. The locals like to tell you that Aruba is "One Happy Island", that everyone relaxes, has a few drinks, and Aruba becomes this instant utopia for all who visit. I prefer to do my own research. For the love of everything Holy, I wish I hadn't. The folklore that you do not normally hear about is what I would like to share. One night, I set out to gain knowledge which would hopefully explain the vibrant, almost electric, sensations I was experiencing from the moment we landed in Aruba. Initially, I thought it was the Ecstasy tablets that I took when we left Miami International that I washed down with some Jose Cuervo, but that definitely was not it. No, something was wrong on the island, and I needed to know what it was. My carefully crafted questions led me to a dilapidated lean-to in the dark side of town, where I was instructed to knock thrice on the rusty, corrugated piece of sheet metal that was serving as a door. What followed shook me to my very soul. A man slid the "door" to the side, revealing the one room which comprised the entire dwelling. Furniture that was not made with driftwood and used chewing gum was made entirely of wicker. The walls were completely covered in indigenous artifacts, skulls of various animals, and velvet posters of Elvis and of puppies playing poker. Illuminating the room were roughly 43 candles, strategically placed to scare the darkness away from all corners, as well as to create a strange combination odor of lilac, cinnamon, sea water, and otter droppings. The man looked at me, and as the candlelight reflected in his one glass eye, said, "Please come in. Would you like a roofie?" After debating this internally for about 7 seconds, I politely declined. I extended my hand, and said, "My name is Eric, and I come seeking knowledge." He turned towards me as if to shake my hand but unfortunately could not, as his hand was missing and in its place was a 4-pronged garden rake bound to his infected forearm stump with neon green twine and a torn neoprene sleeve. He said, "My name is Juan Encarcion Jose Jiminez Lugo Menendez Smith, but you can call me Vicki". He then turned from me and shuffled towards the middle of the room, which was painful to watch as his legs were not human legs but makeshift limbs; one was an ironing board stapled to his hip and the other was a well-traveled bowling pin. After collapsing into a chair he motioned for me to do the same, gesturing towards the wicker chaise lounger directly across from him. As our eyes met, he stared at me intently. After about 35 minutes (in which he did blink once) he said to me, "You come regarding unsettling vibrations you feel, no?" As I slowly nodded, partially out of fear, and partially because my whole body had fallen asleep due to the odd angle my spine was perched at, he nodded in agreement. He said, "I will tell you everything. For some reason, I feel I can trust you, plus your cologne is simply enchanting. Is it Polo, or Obsession by Calvin Klein?" This thoroughly confused me, as I was not wearing any cologne and at one point while walking that night I had my leg peed on my a stray lemur. I did not have the heart to tell him this, so I simply said "Polo". Again, he nodded satisfactorily, proud of his perceived olfactory prowess. He leaned towards me, and began to whisper "Closer, closer" while motioning for me to lean in as well. As we approached each other, he kept whispering "closer, closer" over and over. Then, all of a sudden. Bonk! We bumped heads. He recoiled in horror, shouting "Too close!". He then ordered me out of his house. I attempted to apologize, as well as protest my ejection. But it was all for naught. When I stepped out into the dark, he shouted, "Eric, you yankee infidel!" As I spun in excited anticipation, hoping that maybe he had changed his mind and was going to invite me back in, he spat on my chest and threw six rotting kumquats at my feet, then slammed the metal sheet shut. In the distance, I heard a bleating goat. Which was almost immediately followed by the sound of a pack of wolves tearing the goat limb from limb. I returned to the hotel, had two strawberry and banana daiquiris, and ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, with explicit instructions to cut it into triangles and not two rectangles. Five days later, we flew home. So please, be very careful.
Cornelius
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Goals
The New Year had me thinking for weeks and weeks about setting goals, as since we are all sheep, it's ingrained in our heads to make new goals for the new year. "Make that new goal!!!", "Lose that weight!!", "Procrastinate less!!", "Stop fondling the neighborhood pets!!", "Get that bowling trophy-shaped protrusion on your right thigh looked at by a real doctor!!"... yeah, they're all the same. This all comes after we are expected to eat like warthogs, swap spit with hated relatives and travel among the other mentally deranged holiday goers... yet I digress. My first goal had to be to make goals for myself for the new year... Cornelius is on his own, as he was last seen attempting to climb telephone poles in nothing but flip flops and a kilt somewhere in Montserrat.
I'm writing this after spending three and a half hours trying to touch my toungue to the tip of my nose, and now the underside of said tongue feels like it has been stretched like the screaming suspenders of an overeating Samoan, and I have drool from my bottom lip to my upper thigh. This shows that I am persistent, and a persistent person can achieve their goals. I have not achieved one goal in my entire life, but I have persistently made goals for myself. My better talent is making goals for those around me; family, friends, enemies, complete strangers, TV personalities. Not goals in the sense that I am delegating responsibilities, no no no no no. "Goals" in the way that they don't even KNOW about them. This way, they continually fail miserably, and then I don't feel so bad about me not reaching one of mine. See how this works?
Here was one of my favorites: a cousin of mine was doing great in his life... he nabbed a fine job, started dating a toenail model, was driving a car worth ten times as many typical hovels located near a major airport, hit the lottery four months straight, and even discovered a new type of cork. This was years ago, mind you, but things have not changed for him, in fact they have only gotten better. But see, he has not achieved the goals that I set for him.
What goals?
Well simply enough, he has not become President of the Benevolent Order of Lemurs, Poughkeepsie chapter (partly because he doesn't live within 1500 miles of Poughkeepsie). He has also not achieved the phsyical prowess of Wilt Chamberlain (my cousin is, after all, 5'2"), nor has he been able to drive two cars simultaneously (WITHOUT the use of a remote control, Jared... no matter HOW much you protest!!!) He is still successful, intelligent and an all-around gentleman with an optimistic look at life in general... but he hasn't achieved his (my) goals.
The goals I have set for myself have been in the order of the mundane (refill my Zippo lighter - oh no, I don't smoke, but one never knows when one needs a Zippo), to the more lavish (skydive naked from an aeroplane - I actually tried this, but the instructor I would be tethered to protested vehemently). Not really sure if my goals have an expiration date, per se, but I'd like to think that there's usually a completion window of a year after my goal is created. So to that point I decided that any future goals would be LIFELONG instead of the short-term. This changes things dramatically, as you can imagine.
My first would have to include me being cremated once I die. Not really a goal one would think, because, after all, I'd be dead, and "lifelong goal" usually implies when I am alive. But see, this is where the goal comes in... my goal is to somehow, some way KNOW of my impending death. Yet that still is not the goal. Once I would know of the impending death, I would then secretly (this is the key) embed fireworks in my body. There would be no autopsy, which would discover the hidden stash, of course. I am talking many, MANY pyrotechnic pieces, and I would do what would be necessary... ahead of time I would sew some under my skin, closer to the time of death I would swallow as many as possible, and really close I'd utilize various orafices. This might sound bizarre to some, but I am a man that likes a good surprise.
I won't bore you with the mundane goals, and I don't make goals that I don't plan on trying. Oh they are all realistic to me, and I have all intentions of pursuing them. So washing my shoe laces, dusting my plastic philadendron and connecting my index and little fingers on my left hand are among the ordinary.
Because the fireworks goal comes near the end of my fruitful life, there is a lot of time in between to achieve other such beauties. I am formulating many, because I want my life to be fulfilling, exciting, unexpected and profound. Another major goal (if I can be so bold as to separate one from the others) has to do with my short hair, a cactus and one of my pet alligator gars. Basically, what I plan to do, and this takes some cautious, extensive prepwork, and I still need to purchase the right intensity blow torch, is to...
Well I do apologize for this, but I was just contacted by a client in Calcutta who is having a computer problem. I must fly out immediately and aid this person, as the fate of the free world rests on his password being reset.
-Horatio
I'm writing this after spending three and a half hours trying to touch my toungue to the tip of my nose, and now the underside of said tongue feels like it has been stretched like the screaming suspenders of an overeating Samoan, and I have drool from my bottom lip to my upper thigh. This shows that I am persistent, and a persistent person can achieve their goals. I have not achieved one goal in my entire life, but I have persistently made goals for myself. My better talent is making goals for those around me; family, friends, enemies, complete strangers, TV personalities. Not goals in the sense that I am delegating responsibilities, no no no no no. "Goals" in the way that they don't even KNOW about them. This way, they continually fail miserably, and then I don't feel so bad about me not reaching one of mine. See how this works?
Here was one of my favorites: a cousin of mine was doing great in his life... he nabbed a fine job, started dating a toenail model, was driving a car worth ten times as many typical hovels located near a major airport, hit the lottery four months straight, and even discovered a new type of cork. This was years ago, mind you, but things have not changed for him, in fact they have only gotten better. But see, he has not achieved the goals that I set for him.
What goals?
Well simply enough, he has not become President of the Benevolent Order of Lemurs, Poughkeepsie chapter (partly because he doesn't live within 1500 miles of Poughkeepsie). He has also not achieved the phsyical prowess of Wilt Chamberlain (my cousin is, after all, 5'2"), nor has he been able to drive two cars simultaneously (WITHOUT the use of a remote control, Jared... no matter HOW much you protest!!!) He is still successful, intelligent and an all-around gentleman with an optimistic look at life in general... but he hasn't achieved his (my) goals.
The goals I have set for myself have been in the order of the mundane (refill my Zippo lighter - oh no, I don't smoke, but one never knows when one needs a Zippo), to the more lavish (skydive naked from an aeroplane - I actually tried this, but the instructor I would be tethered to protested vehemently). Not really sure if my goals have an expiration date, per se, but I'd like to think that there's usually a completion window of a year after my goal is created. So to that point I decided that any future goals would be LIFELONG instead of the short-term. This changes things dramatically, as you can imagine.
My first would have to include me being cremated once I die. Not really a goal one would think, because, after all, I'd be dead, and "lifelong goal" usually implies when I am alive. But see, this is where the goal comes in... my goal is to somehow, some way KNOW of my impending death. Yet that still is not the goal. Once I would know of the impending death, I would then secretly (this is the key) embed fireworks in my body. There would be no autopsy, which would discover the hidden stash, of course. I am talking many, MANY pyrotechnic pieces, and I would do what would be necessary... ahead of time I would sew some under my skin, closer to the time of death I would swallow as many as possible, and really close I'd utilize various orafices. This might sound bizarre to some, but I am a man that likes a good surprise.
I won't bore you with the mundane goals, and I don't make goals that I don't plan on trying. Oh they are all realistic to me, and I have all intentions of pursuing them. So washing my shoe laces, dusting my plastic philadendron and connecting my index and little fingers on my left hand are among the ordinary.
Because the fireworks goal comes near the end of my fruitful life, there is a lot of time in between to achieve other such beauties. I am formulating many, because I want my life to be fulfilling, exciting, unexpected and profound. Another major goal (if I can be so bold as to separate one from the others) has to do with my short hair, a cactus and one of my pet alligator gars. Basically, what I plan to do, and this takes some cautious, extensive prepwork, and I still need to purchase the right intensity blow torch, is to...
Well I do apologize for this, but I was just contacted by a client in Calcutta who is having a computer problem. I must fly out immediately and aid this person, as the fate of the free world rests on his password being reset.
-Horatio
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