Job Searching Success

I got e-mail today from the Dean of Career Services at my law school. He is truly a nice guy, and I think he's doing a good job of trying to clean up the mess that our former Dean left him.

He asked how my job search was going. He told me that he spoke with the career counselor that I met with late last year, and they were both surprised that I hadn't found a job yet. I started writing a reply, and this is the first thing that came out,

"The success of my job search is akin to the success of a suicide bomber, who reaches his target, but the bomb doesn’t go off and he’s shot to death.

Then, when his family is viewing the body, the bomb detonates and kills his family."

(I erased that and sent him a serious reply.)

Millis

Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of people talk on their cell phones at the gym. I don’t do it. It's not because I think it violates any unwritten code of gym etiquette, I just don’t want to break my phone or put people hold on during sets.

A week ago today, while driving home from the gym, I noticed a missed call from an unidentified number with a 612 area code. After going through the usual emotions that come with seeing a new number, I checked my voicemail. It was Millis (friend from law school and shit enthusiast.) He said that he’s got a new cell phone number and that he really enjoyed the shit-rating post. He said to give him a call back and we’d catch up. I haven’t spoken to Millis since the summer, so it was nice to hear his voice. (He’s in my fantasy football league, we all post back and forth all the time, so its not like I haven’t heard anything from him, I just haven’t actually spoken to him.)

The news of Millis’ new phone number upset me because it might mean that he'd also have to change his voicemail greeting. No one’s voicemail greeting makes me laugh harder than Millis’, here's what he says:

“Hi this Matt Millis, obviously I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

I can’t even type it without laughing.

I was about to call Millis back when I realized that I was only a minute away from my house, so this meant as soon as I walked in the door, my parents were going to be there, and they’d interrupt the call in some way. I didn’t want to call Millis and then be the one to say, “I gotta go” after one minute of conversation (or be the self-righteous prick that says, “I’ll let you go.”) So I told myself I’d call him later that night.

I ended up hanging out with some friends that night, and forgot to call Millis.

Tuesday night I watched Employee of the Month in my neighbor’s basement/movie theater, and ate the best popcorn in northern Illinois. (prepared by me, in their commercial size popcorn maker, I’ll put it up against any batch of popcorn made in Will, DuPage, Lake, or Cook county.) (and I don’t recommend Employee of the Month to anyone, under any circumstance. We only watched it for the popcorn.) I once asked Moon (my neighbor) if he’d rather eat the popcorn or have sex. He replied, “Have sex with who?”* Needless to say, I forgot to call Millis.

It had been two days since Millis had called and I didn't think I'd remember to call him back. So I looked at my phone and realized the good news and bad news. The good news was that my cell phone has the capability to store reminders. The bad news was that I wasn’t going to remember to check the reminders. I wrote one anyway.

Wednesday night, I remembered to call Millis. The problem was that I was hanging out with my brother and some high school friends. I haven’t talked to Millis since the summer, so I wasn't going to call him while sitting in a loud room full of drunken guys.

Thursday, I forgot to call.

Friday, I remembered to call Millis, but it was ~3 in the afternoon, and I didn’t want to call him during the day. Millis is an attorney, so theoretically, every second he spends on the phone with me during office hours, is a second that he’s going to have to stay late. (Take that with a grain of salt, because Millis is the same guy who used to bill his time on the shitter every the morning, and only stopped because the work was taking away from his shitting experience.) (Not because squeezing chunks of shit from his asshole as he worked took anything away from the quality of his work product.) I respect him for that.

I sure as hell wasn’t going to call him Friday night. Like I said earlier, Millis is a working attorney, which means that come Friday night, he’s probably a working alcoholic. He’s been married and working in Minneapolis for close to six months now, so I’m sure he’s a regular at a bar near his office. A place with a bartender who knows his name, his poison, and knows not to look him in the eye until he’s at least three quarters of the way through his second screwdriver. And also knows not to say a word to him until Millis has decided whether his third drink will be another screwdriver, a Grey Goose on the rocks, or a Grey Goose neat.

Yesterday, I remembered to call Millis while running a couple of errands, but then realized that I’d been building up this phone call with Millis for so long that I couldn’t think of anything to say that would live up to this hype.

I’d been thinking about making this damn phone call for five days, but what was I supposed to say? Talking to someone on the phone after such a long time is tricky. It brings to light a difference that I’ve noticed between men and women. Cindy is always amazed when she hears me talk to my friends on the phone because there are no pleasantries. We don’t ask eachother how we’re doing, we don’t ask eachother about our girlfriends, or our families, or our jobs, and there’s no long drawn out goodbye. Men get right to the point. And when we’re done, we’re done. I could be in mid-sentence, but if the man on the other end says, “Alright man”, I know, that for some reason or another, he has to get off the phone. When Cindy is talking to one of her girlfriends on the phone, I can tell five minutes beforehand when they’re starting to warm up for their goodbye.

Since I hadn't spoken to Millis in so long, it’d feel strange just talking about whatever bullshit was on our minds at the time. I realized that if I had called him at that moment yesterday afternoon, half of our first conversation in six months would have been about how I was walking through the mall eating a Wendy’s spicy chicken sandwich, and some people were staring at me like I was some kind of wild animal for not eating it in the food court. For example: I was browsing in a video game store when a mother standing in front of me turned around. She looked at me, looked at the spicy chicken, and then we made eye contact. She gave me a dirty look, put her arm around her little son (who hadn’t seen me yet), and pulled him away. I didn't understand why. I really wanted to say to her, “It’s a spicy chicken sandwich! What can I possibly do with this thing that’s going to harm your son?” “Answer me.” Its not like I was getting crumbs on the floor, and I kept it wrapped in foil so my hands would stay clean. (and I kept napkins in my hand) What was she worried about?

Ok, now I’m not sure exactly where I was going with this post. All I know is that I wanted to call Millis, but in addition to not being able to find a good time to call him, I wasn’t sure how to squeeze six months of conversation into a few short minutes. And I didn't think I'd be at the top of Millis' list of people he'd like to have hour long phone conversations with. I was at Millis’ wedding, but I certainly wasn’t in Millis’ wedding. (I was sitting in the back reading the program, and when I was finished with the program, I picked up a Bible.)

Ok, so what I’ve decided to do is honor Millis. The following is a visual ode to Matt Millis.

Who said you can’t mix business and pleasure?

This is Millis playing guitar. I was going to put, “Millis doing what Millis does best.” But his plumber might argue otherwise.

Two stories come to mind when I look at this picture. 1) That man on the left (Connor’s uncle) later went on to marry the woman in the middle. You might be thinking, “he's gotta be 20 years older than her, he’s probably got a lot of money.” He doesn’t. Learn how to play guitar...

2) Our law school does a “gong show” fundraiser every year. (Students perform on a stage, and if a judge doesn’t like it, they hit a gong and the performer has to stop and leave the stage.) Millis entered the competition and was doing his rendition of Dave Matthews’ version of “Redemption Song”. (I know.) Millis is a great guitar player, and a great singer, but within one minute, he was gonged by our criminal law professor (Brown). (Millis is a great performer, but that particular version of Redemption Song is intense, and it's not for everyone.) As Millis was leaving the stage, Professor Brown extended his hand for a shake, but a pissed-off Millis just looked him in the eye and said,, “Fuck off!”

We were playing a drinking game on St. Patrick’s day, Millis made a rule that had me drinking a little. So I retaliated by making a rule that had him drinking a lot. (It was something to the effect of, “anytime anyone drinks, Millis has to drink, until the next _ is pulled from the deck") All we had to say was “Millis Rule”, and he knew what to do. This picture was taken right after Millis drew the card that would allow him to make his own rule and end the tyranny of the “Millis Rule.” (great picture)

The funniest sunburn I’ve ever seen. Millis put sunscreen on his back, and then laid on his back. When he turned to lay on his stomach, some of the sunscreen had come off. Can you guess where?

This was by far the coldest day of our trip to Destin, and for some reason I had the idea to go into the water. Millis and Walrus were the only two brave enough to join me. This is us making the long walk into the gulf.

This is us sprinting back to the warmth of the pool, which felt like a hot tub after going into the gulf.

It honestly felt like getting into a hot tub.

Millis’ facebook picture.

Millis running the Indianapolis mini-marathon. When I asked him about the cut off sleeves, he said, “I had to, there’s a statute that prohibits carrying concealed weapons in the state of Indiana.”**

I don’t know what this is, but that’s Millis on the far left. The date on the picture is March 2005. I don’t know…

Open bar at Mills’ wedding, this picture was taken very early. As you can probably tell, the two guys flanking me had rough nights. The big fella to my left (Dirk) drove home that night. The next day he said to me, “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.” (He’s older than he looks, and done a lot more dumb things than you'd think) The shirt I’m wearing in that picture is still in the possession of my good friend to my right.

I told you that Dirk's done some dumb things. (this was taken at Bloomington hospital at 6am, and he was so hammered that he was almost arrested in the hospital waiting room) Right before I snapped the picture he groaned, "Hang on, let me get in a pose so I can look more like Christ."***

Close-up. He didn’t get into a fight. He was trying to break into his own house through the back window. Why? Because he doesn’t carry keys because he leaves his keys in his car, which is one of the last remaining cars on earth with a keypad that you can use to unlock the doors. But he'd left his car at the bar. (The more you read his blog, the more you’ll appreciate it. Its really funny, but you have to be patient)

This is me, preparing for Millis’ marriage proposal. You can see Millis on the left. He sent his fiancé on a scavenger hunt around campus. Each clue was given by two friends with a rose. The last clue led her back to his apartment, where she’d find Millis (sporting a shirt so red that my rose was jealous), awaiting her arrival with a home cooked gourmet meal and a diamond ring. (if you look closely, you can see Spencer between Millis and I. And if you look at the bottom right, you can see Millis’ table setting. He’s no slouch.) It was really well orchestrated. I seriously wonder if I'll live to see a better proposal.

The happiest night of his life.

The End

* I made that up, but that’s what he would say
** I made that up
*** I made that up

**** If you made it through this entire post, and are reading this (I’m not talking about Millis, I’m talking about you) The next time we have a drink together, its on me. It takes a good and trusting friend to get this far. Thank you. I really mean that. I'm going to make this blog better just for you.

"Terms and Conditions"

Whenever I sign in to “blogger”, I'm asked to update to the new Google blogger edition. I always answer “no" because I don't need any of the new features. Plus, its kind of scary to think about how dominant Google Inc. has become in the internet market, combined with the fact that they store all of your searches and internet activity.

But for some reason, today I decided to give it a try. After entering my username and password, I was asked to accept the “Terms of Service.”

(I love it when "Terms of Service" are short. Not only short, but they're written to be read by actual people. (as opposed to their attorneys) I signed up for something once where the Terms were just 5 bullet point items. and they were written like this; "Don't make copies and sell this software. We won't distribute any of your personal information. etc." It was the information that a reasonable user could read and would want to know.)

So anyway, I was curious to see how long the "Google Blogger" terms were, so I clicked on them. Within those terms, were additional links to the “terms and conditions”, “privacy policy”, and “content policy” among others. I clicked on most of the major links, and cut and paste the contents into Word.

The result; 18 and a half single spaced pages in 10 pt font.

These were two of my favorite clauses at the beginning:

Google may, in its sole discretion, modify or revise these Terms of Service and policies at any time, and you agree to be bound by such modifications or revisions.

Although we may attempt to notify you when major changes are made to these Blogger Terms of Service, you should periodically review the most up-to-date version.

So what if,,, beginning next month, Google starts charging $1,000 a month for the Blogger service, and fails to notify me of the change? A year from now I get a bill for $12,000.

I guess I'm legally bound.

Career Counseling for the Uncounselable

My law school hired a career counselor to help some unemployed grads find work in Chicago. I was skeptical of course, but decided that at the very least it would give me something to say when people ask what I’ve been doing for the last six months.
The meeting pretty much met my expectations at the time, but looking back at it now, it was kind of funny.
(Before I start; in the career counselor’s defense I just want to say that this woman means well. She’s very good at showing people how to network and write cover letters, and I’m sure that she’s helped people find jobs before. If and when I ever have a job interview, I’ll go back to her for pointers.) (We simply met at a time in my life when I was not ready to start working.) That being said,
It was a rainy afternoon when we met at her office in the north loop, and there were some early warning signs; no computer in her office, e-mail address ending in “aol.com”, but none of that mattered if she knew people. After talking to me for a few minutes, she looked at my resume and immediately noticed my finance experience. Our conversation went like this,

Career Counselor - Cyrus, you’d really be a great fit for securities litigation.

Me – Ok, so you can read. (just kidding, I didn’t say that.) (I said something stupid like, “Indeed I would.”)

It didn’t take long for her to notice my class rank and complain,

Career Counselor – Oh Cyrus, oh, if you were just a little bit higher. Top 1/3 and top 30% is a cut-off at some firms. Can’t you just,,, I don’t want to tell you to lie about it but,,,

Me – (interrupting) Honestly, I wouldn’t want to work for a firm pretentious enough to care about a slightly lower GPA. (plus, the number on my resume is already rounded up)

Career Counselor – Cyrus, you can’t have that kind of attitude, image is important to these firms

Me – (interrupting again) Plus, that class rank is not a good indicator of my ability to succeed at a big Chicago law firm

Career Counselor – That’s the spirit! And that’s what you’ve gotta convey in an interview.

Me – Well,,, what I meant by that was, if a big law firm hires me and expects the work product of a student in the top 35% of their class, they could be in for a disappointment

Her silence combined with the look on her face, had me thinking that she’d never heard that one before. (I can’t imagine many have) She wasn’t sure if it was a joke, so I laughed to reassure her. Plus, I still had faith in her.

After a couple of more minutes of chit chat about why I let my grades slip, she figured me out. (I’ll admit, I’m a transparent guy, but she figured me out quickly.)

Career Counselor – Ok, so you’re one of those people who “does well when you’re motivated, but if you’re not motivated, then you won’t work hard and just hope to get by because you’ve always done well on tests.” 

Me – Wow, yeah, kind of,,,, but maybe in a more, “you can trust me with the keys to the Cadillac” sort of way.

Career Counselor – Chicago law firms don’t want someone like that. They want someone who’s giving 100%, 100% of the time. You have to sell yourself as that kind of person.

Me – Yeah, I could be like that, I just need the right motivation.

Career Counselor – But you’ve got to convince a law firm that you’re not the guy who is only going to work hard when he’s motivated

Me - Maybe money will motivate me. My girlfriend and I are $200k in debt combined…

Career Counselor – Money is a big motivating factor

Me – (Interrupting) I’ll just have to show them that I am motivated by money -- by good old fashioned American greed!

(She didn’t even blink at that. I couldn’t tell if she was sick of me or if maybe she was actually starting to believe in me.) (Or if maybe she’d already conditioned herself to block me out) The more I thought about it, maybe I did need to make some money. That line about the greed has stuck with me, even though I was joking at the time. I could really use some fucking money.

The session continued:

Career Counselor – Can you get a list of IU Alumni in Chicago?

Me – Yeah, I think so

Career Counselor – Ok, get a list of alumni and start networking with them

Me – (I was waiting for more advice… waiting,,, waiting….then finally realized that she was done..) Ok...

At this point, I was starting to lose faith in her, I thought to myself, “this woman is just scamming our career services department.” But then she started to regain my confidence by giving me the names of two former colleagues that she wanted me to contact. (although instead of giving me any contact information for one of them, she told me to get the phone number by “dialing information”)

But just when it seemed like she was starting to reel me back in….

Career Counselor - Have you heard of a firm called Bartlit Beck?

(they’re probably the most prestigious litigation boutique in Chicago)

Me - Yeah, I’ve heard of them,,, Phil Beck represented Bush, in Bush v. Gore. Why? (do they need a night watchman or something?)

Career Counselor - Why don’t you go on their website and see if any IU Alums work there?

Me - (I interrupted her) – Come on now, that place is like a co-ed fraternity for former Supreme Court clerks and Ivy Leaguers. You want me to get a paying job with them? (Maybe if I caught one of the partners with a prostitute, and blackmailed him with a video-tape of the actual sex,,, then maybe I could get someone on the phone. But the more likely scenario would be that a firm representative would write me a blank check and explain to me that he couldn’t give me a job under any circumstance.)

Career Counselor – Well, its worth a try

Me – (humoring her) Ok, I’ll take a look.

Career Counselor - Why don’t you go on Google and type in ‘Securities Litigation Chicago’, and see what you get.

Me – (writing it down) Did you say “google.com”?

Quick Realizations

I had a couple of realizations just now.

1) I was driving home, and the gas light in my dad's car came on. As much as I hate admitting it, for a second, I thought to myself, "What are the chances he drives this thing next and pays for the tank?" Then I realized that I'm, maybe, I'm not saying I am, but maybe I'm a free loader? Or close? Or, ok fine, I'm free loading for the time being.

2) My dad might be losing a step. I walked in the door just now, (at 3:15am), and he's passed out on the couch. I 'haven't even closed the door behind me before he asks me to check the mail. "The mail?" I ask.

"Yeah"

"At 3:15 am?" I ask. again.

"Yeah. Check the mail." he mumbles.

The worst part is that I actually went outside and checked the fucking mail.

He might be talking about the mail in his sleep, but I'm the dumbass actually listening to him and looking inside the mailbox at 3:15 am. Like there's something new in there.

I need a vacation.

Age of Empires?

Dirk, Jake, lets get a game of Age of Empires going this weekend. Unless one of you can come up with a good reason not to.

The Meaning of it All

Prologue:

I hoped that what I am about to do had already been done.

I wish I could have simply picked up a ten-volume treatise on the subject and sat back with a couple of fingers of an Ardmore that’s been on this earth longer than me and read about the subject at my own leisure.

I certainly never wanted the demands of a task so important to mankind to fall squarely upon my narrow and unsteady shoulders. However, after many sleepless days, it has struck me that perhaps this is my calling. Perhaps this is what I owe civilization. And perhaps maybe, just maybe, there is in fact a meaning, to my life.

Part One:

Man has only one sensation comparable to orgasm.

Such an intense progression of vulnerability, euphoria and absolute clarity can only be approached – and often surpassed – while taking a shit.

Some of the most astonishing things ever said to me, were said by men attempting to explain their affection for shitting. Here are a few:

“I like it so much, that sometimes, I seriously wonder if I’m gay.” (IS)


“If you’ve never looked afterwards and seen blood in the toilet, then you my friend have not lived.” (MM)


“It’s birth, it’s life, and it’s death, all in one beautiful terrible experience. It is everything, yet the sum of it is nothing.” (CK)

Shitting is a unique experience.

I have friends who only shit at home. I have friends who only shit naked (but not necessarily at home.)

I have friends who only shit under candlelight. I have friends who only shit under the moonlight.

I have friends who will only rest their ass on black porcelain. I have friends who will only rest their ass upon the fur of a freshly killed chinchilla.

I have friends who rush themselves to the emergency room if they don't shit for 32 hours. I have friends who rush themselves to a therapist if they don't shit for 32 hours.

I have friends who pray while they shit. I have friends who consider shitting to be prayer.

I have friends who touch themselves while they shit.

I had a friend once tell me that if he could bring himself to orgasm while shitting, he would promptly point his gun to his head and pull the trigger, because life could never get any better.

I had a friend once argue with me vehemently that not only is shitting comparable to sex, but that it is superior to sex because shitting is the epitome of a man finding peace on his own. Unlike sex or masturbation, a man’s mind can be clear of all thoughts when shitting. Shitting, was his religion.

Part Two:

A recent article in the Johns Hopkins Journal of Medicine hypothesized that the quality of a man’s shitting almost directly correlates with his general level of happiness. The author stopped short of taking a position on whether the quality of shitting was in fact the cause of the happiness, or vice versa. However, a study published in last quarter’s Stanford Mental Health Review explained a prevailing trend among psychiatrists to stop prescribing anti-anxiety medications, and instead, asking their patients to simply use over the counter laxatives for what ails them. This movement was prompted by a recent study done at Oxford University in which a large group of patients were told they were being given anti-anxiety pills, when in fact half of them had been given a simple over-the-counter laxative. In over 90% of the cases, patients who had been given the laxatives experienced better long-term results. The physicians at Oxford concluded that frequent shitting translated to frequent gratification, which led to superior mental health.

The three studies however shared the same flaw; they were unable to come up with a standardized approach for how to rate the quality of the patient’s shit. Physicians complained that it was difficult to gauge how patients truly felt about their shitting experiences because the patients themselves had difficulty identifying and analyzing their full range of sensations. This in turn made it difficult for doctors to prescribe proper types and dosages of laxative.

A physician from the Oxford study analogized one’s ability to properly rate his own shit, to drinking a fine wine. With wine, recreational drinkers taste only the grapes and alcohol, however there are numerous other intricacies that must be assessed when judging one’s total conscious and - perhaps more importantly - subconscious experience with the wine; such is the same with shit.

Several shit rating websites litter the internet, making this problem even more taxing for physicians because it distorts the patient's perception of a truly gratifying shit. Many websites request that its visitors to rate the poop of others based solely on its appearance. (This appalling practice has recently been criminalized in many Scandinavian countries.)

A man can only be the judge of his own shit. Shitting is a private, spiritual, and borderline-sexual experience. Taking pictures of one’s own stool and posting it on the internet for others to “rate” is an ignorant and vile act. Appearance is an infinitesimal part of how shit should truly be evaluated. These websites will sicken any genuine aficionado. (figuratively)

Part Three:

Alas, the preceding has demonstrated what is known as the “21^st Century Paradox” facing the shitting community. On one hand, the medical field desperately seeks a way for individuals to uniformly communicate their level of satisfaction with a shitting experience. However, on the other hand, shitting is a divine – and erotic – experience for the individual.

Being able to precisely measure the totality of one’s fulfillment from shitting will aid physicians and the medical research community, as well as thinkers and philosophers who focus on shit-based schools of thought. What many researchers refer to as, “The Eternal Question” is as follows:

“How can we formulate an objective measure for something that can only be measured subjectively?”

Part Four:

The following is an abstract from a project on which I am currently working that attempts to answer this age-old question. (A synopsis of the work will appear in the next quarter’s Carnegie Mellon Mental Health Review. I hope to someday complete the treatise; the first twelve-volumes of which are scheduled to be published in late 2012, and the thirteenth will be written later in my life (or by my first born son.))

I have spend the last several years of my life working on a way to measure the quality of one’s dump.

The scale I have devised is simple on its face, yet very intricate in its malleability. It compiles the objective criteria used subconsciously by all when evaluating a shitting experience. Yet, it allows the individual to apply a unique weight and rating to each factor, thus allowing him to properly judge true satisfaction.

The Seven Criteria: (aka, “The Seven Wonders of the Post-Modern World”)

Physical Pleasure – This can be broken down into two subcategories: stomach relief and rectal pleasure. However, to simplify at this early stage, I will lump these into one category.

Physical Pleasure is best measured in a quadrant. An example will simplify this: certain people have a “work hard and play hard” mentality. (Which means that they would give a higher rating to a stomachache relieving, jagged edged, football sized, sphincter-cutting shit.) Conversely, there are people who dislike the stomachaches, and also prefer easy effortless shits.

Different strokes for different folks, however the important lesson is that physical pleasure must be accounted for. (Janet Jackson wrote a song in the 1980’s called “Pleasure Principle” that metaphorically addresses this precise issue.)

Emotional Fulfillment – In 6^th Century BC, Prince Siddhartha Gautama began his quest for enlightenment. The first step in his long journey was finding a place to meditate. One day he noticed a monk meditating while shitting under a tree. Over time, he noticed others shitting as the monk shat – a great many of whom found enlightenment in the process. Deeply influenced by his observations, the Prince decided to shit under a tree himself. 15 years later he found enlightenment and formed a small religion we now know as Buddhism.

The mental state is a critical component to the shitting experience. What a man accomplishes in the course of thought whilst shitting must be taken into account.

Exit – Cleanliness of the exit is another crucial - crucial - factor. (In much of Eastern Europe and Northwest Asia, this is referred to as the “Dismount”) Sometimes the fecal matter passes through an asshole so pure and so clean, that wiping afterwards is considered disrespectful. (Wiping in that situation is an indicator of impending bad luck in most South American countries.) On the other hand, there are times when a man's shit is so filthy that he is left with no choice but to shower immediately after. And oftentimes this must be done in a different bathroom.

Nutritionists have published thousands of books and peer reviewed journal articles on how to improve the Exit of a shit through proper diet. And equally prevalent are books and seminars of yoga masters on proper technique designed to improve the Exit.

There’s a reason why people wear black underwear.

Smell – A roommate once called to tell me that he took a shit in the basement of our three story house, and later that evening, he could smell traces of it on the second floor. To this day he refers to the instant he smelt the shit upstairs as, “The Moment.”

The woman I love once asked me, “Do people like the smell of their own shit better because it reminds them of the food that they ate?” I didn’t have an answer, but I admired the question.

Some people are not fully satisfied with their shit unless their eyes are watering from the stench, whereas others don’t want to smell a thing. The lesson here is that smell matters.

Duration – Some men wish for a shitting session that lasts long enough to read an article in Maxim magazine, others like to read the New Yorker. Some want to read a novel, others, a tetralogy. Some men sit down with a laptop computer, others, with a guitar and digital recorder.

I know men who sit down with a cigar and a liter of single malt, and won't get up until both are finished. It is widely know that Beethoven wrote his Fifth Symphony while taking one shit. Whether you like them long or short, length of time spent on the throne is a factor that must be rated.

Appearance – My first Saturday St. Patrick’s Day celebration in Chicago was spent bar hopping and drinking green beer. I had a great time. My first Sunday after St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago was spent admiring my fluorescent green stools, and I had an even better time.

Looks can make a shit memorable.

Size – Everyone has experienced this: your stomach is hurting, and getting to a toilet feels like nothing short of an emergency. You rush to the bathroom expecting a tremendous shit, but after you’ve finished, you look into the toilet expecting to see a grapefruit, yet all you find is a grape. You think to yourself, “That can’t be all? All of that discomfort I was feeling can’t be relieved by such a small turd.” You realize that the pain relief is only temporary, and that the mother load is still waiting inside. Another run to the toilet is imminent. (speaking of size, I have a friend who’s confessed clogging toilets with just shit. No paper.) Size matters. Even though a lot of it is just mental,, seeing a big shit gives a man a sense of closure.

Using the formula is simple. First, you rate each of the seven factors on a scale of 1-10. Then weigh the importance of each of the seven criteria. This varies from person to person, and from shit to shit. My current equation would look something like this:

X = (Physical Pleasure*.15) + (Emotional Fulfillment*.30) + (Exit*.31) + (Smell*.05) + (Duration*.15) + (Appearance *.02) + (Size*.02)

Please note, that this formula remains in its early stages of development. But nonetheless, I feel it is on the right track. As you begin your journey towards enlightenment, I’ll leave you with a quote,

“The perfect ass wiping experience is when your lone swipe leaves the paper clean, except for a small drop of blood.” (Socrates)

Diamonds

Is there a Marketing Hall of Fame? If so, is it named after the man responsible for creating the De Beers Diamonds ad campaign?

Lets give him credit for somehow conditioning society not to laugh at the notion of asking a man to piss away two month’s salary on a rare but useless rock.

Has society at least evolved to the point where we can call it two month’s salary after tax? Because if not, we should call “two month’s salary before tax” what it really is… three month’s salary.

By now you've probably heard about some of the atrocities associated with the diamond industry, so I'm not going to rehash them here. (but just in case, here's a quick hitting link)

Here's my solution: Rather than proposing to a woman by offering her a diamond ring, why not offer her a fur coat? There are atrocities associated with both, but at least the fur coat is functional. And maybe the best part is, that for the price of a diamond, you can probably buy "his and hers" fur coats.

Think about it, I can either buy this:

The actual engagement ring bought by a good friend for his fiancé (on my finger)

Or I can get these:

Think about it Lindsey, this could be you and Milo.

Here's a link to the website where I found those two fur coats for sale, just in case. (tell them Cyrus sent you)

dignity before death

I don’t understand people very well, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. I tried today, and actually learned something. It turned out to be a very exciting experience that I’d like to share with you:

According to White House officials, President Bush was upset after watching the video of Saddam Hussein’s execution. White House officials said that, “Bush found the taunting of Hussein as he stood on the gallows with a noose around his neck disturbing.” (here’s an article, there are many more like it)

(In my opinion, the taunting was over the top, but I was a bit more disturbed by the fact that there was a man standing on the gallows.)

Then last night, I listened to the President’s speech. While describing some of the US successes in Iraq, the President boasted, “Our military forces in Anbar are killing and capturing Al Qaeda leaders”

I was confused. For some reason, the President didn’t seem very disturbed by those killings. He was actually bragging about them.

My mission was to understand why. To get the answer I was going to have to make some phone calls.

A good friend from high school, has a younger brother who is currently a White House intern, so I called him first (the brother.) After a couple minutes of small-talk, I asked him if he had any idea why Bush was so disturbed by the taunting of Hussein, but not by the killings of Al Qaeda leaders in Anbar. He told me that he rarely gets to speak to the President, and even if he did, a conversation like that would likely be considered out of bounds. He apologized for his inability to offer any insight.

So next I called a former undergrad professor who now teaches at the Grover Cleveland School of Public Policy at George Washington. I asked him the same question. His initial response was sarcasm. He said something to the effect of, “Maybe he suffers from short term memory loss.” But then he confessed that if he could answer that question, he would have written about it long ago.

I had one last contact, and he was my best shot at finding a good lead (which is why I saved him for last.) His daughter is an old friend from high school, and he now works for the State Department in Washington DC. He owed me a favor.

I called him up at ~11:00 last night and asked him the question. At first he thought I was joking, and laughed. But it didn’t take him long to realize that I was serious. He was reluctant to help, but I pressed him, hard. (I knew that he was my last chance.) He finally agreed to look through some paperwork the next day and see what he could find, he told me that the White House keeps memoranda on almost everything that goes on there.

I wasn’t very optimistic, it was midnight in DC, so I figured he was just trying to get off the phone. (Just because I took his daughter’s best friend to homecoming after she had been dumped by her boyfriend, didn’t mean he was going to dig through classified documents to return the favor.) I gave up, and went to sleep.

This morning I was awakened by the vibrating of my phone. (I’m dog-sitting for Juice again so I don’t have my “t-shirt under the phone” set-up here.) It was a 202 area code, (DC), so I answered immediately. It was my friend’s father at the State Department. I could tell right away that he had something because he was whispering. The only thing he said was, “Can you get to a fax machine in the next two minutes?”

I could sense that he was nervous. Juice’s home office was right next to my room, so I told him I could be in front of a fax machine in 10 seconds. I was shaking with excitement. I quickly climbed out of bed, hurried into the office, and read him the fax number. As soon as I read him the number, he said to me, “Please, don’t ever tell anyone that I did this for you.” He hung up the phone.

A couple of minutes later, the fax machine rang. Two pages came out. The first page was simply a handwritten note, “Cyrus, please destroy this after you read it.”

The second page was a memo from an Army Lieutenant stationed in the Anbar province of Iraq, addressed to the White House! My adrenaline was rushing. The subject heading of the memo was, “Anbar: Capturing and Killing of Al Qaeda Leaders.”

Wow, I wondered what was I about to read...

The memo was fairly short, only three paragraphs. The first paragraph had a subheading, "Capturing." It explained the fighting and capturing of Al Qaeda leaders in Anbar. The next two paragraphs had the subheading, "Killing." I’ll type those two paragraphs here, word for word:

“After Al Qaeda leaders are captured, they are formally charged with the crime of ‘international terrorism’ which is punishable by death. They are then informed of their rights and given the opportunity to hire an attorney, or use the local Iraqi court appointed attorney. The attorney will guide them through their process, which includes a trial by jury, and appeal. If a guilty verdict is found by the jury, and upheld by the court of appeals, an execution date will be set. Mr. President, I can assure you that all of the killings of Al Qaeda leaders in Anbar are carried out with the utmost respect for the prisoner.

The executions take place at night, so on the morning of the execution, the prisoner is taken to a Mosque and allowed to say his final prayers. We then allow him to spend his last day with family. This often includes playing with children, a conjugal visit with his wife, and a conjugal visit with his mistress. At 9pm, the visitation time is over, and the prisoner is taken away. In the execution room, the prisoner is given a bed on which to sleep. He is also given a freshly fluffed pillow for his head, a warm blanket to cover his body, and a Koran to hold in his hands. He is allowed to fall asleep on his own. Once asleep, a licensed American doctor gives him an injection of morphine to ease any pain. The doctor then administers a small, yet lethal dose of poison that kills him instantly, and painlessly. Finally, according to Muslim custom, the body is bathed, anointed with scents, draped in a seamless white shroud, and immediately handed over to his family so that they may bury the body within 24 hours (in accordance with traditional Islamic custom.)”

It all came together! My question was answered. The Al Qaeda leaders that the President boasted about killing, were killed honorably. We may have taken their lives, but we left them their dignity. This was totally different from how Hussein was killed.

Perhaps a good starting point for learning about a person is to figure out where he/she gets his information, and then find out what that information is. Because after reading this memo, I agree with the President. You should have some respect for a man when you go into his country and take his life. Our execution methods, as outlined in that memo, clearly demonstrate our respect for the enemy.

On the other hand, when Saddam Hussein was killed, it was troubling. It’s not right to taunt a man before you hang him. It's just not fucking right.

Nobody's Safe

Part I

Tonight, President Bush is going to address the nation and explain why we should send more troops to Iraq. Just as a refresher, here are a few facts we’ve all heard before:

- On September 11, 2001, suicide bombers hailing mostly from Saudi Arabia and trained in Afghanistan, attacked the U.S., killing ~3,000 innocent civilians.

- Since then, the US has bombed and sent ~20,000 troops to Afghanistan, resulting in 10,000–50,000 Afghani casualties (depending on your source)

- The US has also, and sent ~150,000 troops to Iraq, resulting in ~600,000 deaths (source)

A majority of the country believes that invasion of Iraq was a mistake, however, simply because a majority of the population believes a certain way, doesn't it true. So allow me to once again state some fairly well known facts:

1. Not one of the 9/11 hijackers came from Iraq
2. Iraq has never attacked the US
3. Prior to 9/11, Iraq had no ties to Al Qaeda
4. There is no evidence that Iraq has ever had any nuclear weapons
   

At first glance, one may think that these facts all support the argument against the invasion of Iraq. But stop…. lets think about this together. Which argument do they really support?

Name a country whose people would go back in time five years and trade places with Iraq?
(limit your answer to first and second world countries)

I can't think of any.

But in retrospect, what could Iraq have done to prevent the US invasion?

I can think of two things:
1) Either stop the 9/11 attacks from happening in the first place, or,
2) Fully cooperate with the US and all of its demands after 9/11.

(If the US wanted Saddam Hussein to give up power and hold elections, he should have listened. If the US wanted UN inspectors to go through Saddam Hussein’s mother’s underwear drawer to look for WMD’s, they should have been given full access)

I think what our administration has done is simple; we’ve told the world that if you want to attack the US, go ahead. But by responding to the attack with an invasion of Iraq, we’re letting the world know that if we get attacked,,,, nobody’s safe.

NOBODY.

We’ll go after those who attacked us. Sure... there’s no question about that. But once we've killed enough people in that country to satisfy our thirst for blood; we’re gonna take the names of every other country in the geographic region of our attackers, we're gonna put those names into a hat, and we're gonna randomly pick one unlucky name. And the country that gets picked will get invaded as well. And just to make sure we’ve got the world’s attention, we will focus the bulk of our army on that country.

This sends a simple message to the world: Police you Neighbors.

Because if you don't police your neighbors, we just might find you liable as our attacker.

It's an alternative strategy, I’ll admit. But a lot of people will tell you that its better to be feared than loved. (Japan seems to like us now.) As of now, this is simply the “unspoken” strategy in Republican circles, but come election time, it's going to be the gospel.

Part II

Hypothetically, lets say Hezbollah decides that now is a good time to launch a terrorist attack on US soil. I can just imagine the conversation between Syrian President Bashar as-Assad, and Hezbollah Leader Sheikh Hassan Nasrallah. (for convenience, I’ll refer to them as “Syria” and “Hezbollah”)

Syria – Listen, Hassan, I know about the little attack you’re planning on the US, and I’m telling you right now, don’t do it.

Hezbollah – What attack, what are you talking about? I don’t know anything...

Syria – (interrupting) Don’t. Ok. Please don’t feed me that bullshit right now, ok. We know. We know everything. Ever since that Iraq invasion we’ve upped our intelligence presence in Beirut because we don’t want you guys trying anything crazy.

Hezbollah – So what are you saying we should do?

Syria – All I’m saying, is that if you wanna attack Israel, go ahead and attack Israel. If you want to commit the lives of the next 10 generations of your people to almost certain death for a piece of land the size of New Jersey, that you’ll probably never even get,,, if you think that’s a good idea, well, that’s none of my business. You attack them all you want. They’ll fire rockets back at you, you’ll beg for mercy, they’ll stop their attacks, and then you’ll declare victory and start up all of this nonsense again… I don’t give a shit. Ok? Some guys prefer to get fucked in the asshole, but that's none of my business.

Hezbollah - ...

Syria - My point is, if you want to attack Israel, if that's what keeps you in power, go ahead and do it, we’re not going to stop you. That’s none of my business. But when you attack America, you make it my business.

Hezbollah – So you,,,

Syria – (interrupting) Do I look like I'm done talking? Did I give you any goddamn indication that I was finished talking?

Hezbollah - no...

Syria - (interrupting) Then shut up and listen. Ok, seriously, shut the fuck up, for two minutes, and listen to what I'm about to say to you. Ok, I’m not smiling right now.

Hezbollah - ...

Syria - Don’t attack the US. Ok? Are we clear on that? Do. Not. Attack. The. United. States. Of. America.

Hezbollah – but we...

Syria – (interrupting) If speak out of turn again, I swear to God or Allah or whoever the fuck it is you pretend to believe in... I swear to him right now that I’ll do it to you myself. With my bare hands if I have to. Are you listening to me? Don’t say a word, just nod if you’re listening.

Hezbollah – (nods)

Syria – Have you been watching the news lately? Don’t answer that. Al Qaeda attacked the US from Afghanistan, with a bunch of Saudis. And you know what the US did? They destroyed Kabul. Then they captured as many of the Taliban fighters as they could find, took them to an island, and tortured them. And the truth is, I’ve got no problems with that. If that’s all they would have done, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Are you with me so far?

Hezbollah – (nods)

Syria – But after the Americans were done with Afghanistan, they attacked Iraq. First, they bombarded them with artillery. Then, they put 150,000 men on the ground. Did you hear me? I don't think you did because I don't see you shivering.

Hezbollah - (shrugs)

Syria - Becausee I just said that they put one hundred and fifty fucking thousand men on the ground,,, IN IRAQ! Do you know what that means?

Hezbollah – (shrugs)

Syria – It means that if you attack the US, and they ask for my help finding you,,, I’m going to do whatever it takes to help them. If that means giving them your head on a platter, literally, I’ll do it. I'll give'em your mother's head if that's what it takes. I don’t want 150,000 American soldiers in my country because I didn’t fully cooperate. I don’t want my country’s infrastructure set back to the stone age because the U.S. wants to make an example out of me. I’ve already told them everything I know about this plan of yours right now. And I’m going to continue to tell them everything I find out.

Hezbollah – (nods)

Syria – (almost whispering now) Let me tell you something, I met George Bush one time. And I’ll tell you what,,, he’s the smartest, coldest motherfucker in this game. He puts on that dumb cowboy act for his followers, but man, you get that motherfucker behind closed doors and the southern accent disappears and he is all business. You wanna hear the craziest thing?

Hezbollah – (hesitates, and nods)

Syria – (still whispering) I spent an afternoon with Bush once, and the entire time... the whole fucking time I was with him... (takes a deep breath and looks around the room.) Let me tell you something about George Bush: that afternoon when I was with him,,, he was hard the whole time. And he didn’t do a thing to hide it.

Hezbollah – (confused)

Syria - He just followed it around the room. And let me ask you something,, You think those Abu Ghraib pictures were “leaked” to the media?

Hezbollah – (shrugs)

Syria - Shit, Bush gave those pictures to the press, and said, “Make sure these pictures are shown all over the world.” You remember those Iraqi’s in the pictures at Abu Ghraib? The ones who were climbing all over each other naked and sucking each other’s dicks? Those poor Muslims probably had as much to do with the 9/11 attacks as Muhammad Ali. You still following me? We’ve all seen how far Al Qaeda is willing to go, now Bush is showing us how far America is willing to go; and it's pretty fucking far. Ok? Bin Laden tried his best, the guy did all he could. He created Al Qaeda, a non state actor, how do you retaliate against a non-state actor? Blah blah blah. But Bush trumped him, Bush said, “If you want to break the rules,,, well, in case anyone forgot, we write the fucking rules.”

Hezbollah – (nods)

Syria – Now get the fuck out of here. (then turns to his assistants) And someone get this motherfucker a goddamn toothbrush before he leaves. I mean, fuck, he's running around representing a goddamn political party and he's got teeth that look like they were taken out of a fucking caveman!

Job Oppurtunity

Only one internet window was able to survive on my computer the entire time I just spent writing that last post. It’s a job listing. Here it is, unedited:

(heading)
"Typist who can do diction over the phone and help with erotic stories"

(detail)
"Hi, im looking for a typist who can help with my erotic book, I can only pay $15.00 per hour up to 4 to 6 hours per week, if you can help me with book please email me with your name and number so we can talk more.
thank you. "

This is not meant to be funny, I really almost applied for this.

The only question in my mind is: Do you really need to place an ad on craigslist to find someone to do that for you?

It has to be a scam, right?

Fine Dining

Whenever I eat at a restaurant, I’m extremely patient with the wait staff. I truly am. I’m more patient than most. (I’m not afraid to sing my own praises in that respect, I’ll have a patience showdown with anyone.) But Saturday night, a waitress pulled a trick on me that went far beyond the bounds of poor service. What she did was in poor taste.

There’s a diner called Omega where we for late night / early morning meals. The first time we ate there our waiter took a liking to us, so now he waits on us whenever we go. (and yes, I agree that its kind of strange that he’s there every time we go) But anyway, Saturday night Omega was slammed, so we had a new waitress.

I’m man enough to admit that I made the first mistake. Instead of ordering my usual (fried eggs, sausage, bacon, hash-browns, and white toast), for some godforsaken reason I ordered a Philly Cheese-steak. That was stupid. I knew it was stupid before I ordered, I knew it was stupid when I ordered, and I certainly know how stupid it is now. When it comes to eating at a 24-hour diner, I have one rule of thumb:

--– When eating at a 24-hour diner, ALWAYS ORDER BREAKFAST.

Ordering a meal at a 24-hour diner is like rolling a six-sided die. But when you order breakfast, it's like being guaranteed a 5 without having to roll. It's hard to mess up breakfast. (The Philly Cheese-steak ended up being one of the worst I’ve ever had. And I’ve had more than my fair share.) Always order breakfast. Always, always, order breakfast. If you don’t like breakfast,,,, start liking breakfast.

So I ordered the Philly Cheese-steak, and the waitress immediately asked, “And what kind of soup would you like with that?”

She said my three options were Broccoli & Cream, Lentil, and Gumbo. Don’t get me wrong, those soups may be delicious at other establishments, but not at this diner. The gumbo looks like they slice up some sausage and onions, boil them, let the water cool down to room temperature, and then pour it into a bowl and call it soup. And Omega is the type of place where if you complained about the soup, the waiter would likely pass you the salt shaker and say, “Take this, and keep sprinkling it into your soup until it tastes better.”

If that response frustrated you, and you called a manager over, the first thing he'd say would be, "Did your waiter not offer you the salt?!?! I'm so sorry about that, here, just sprinkle this into your soup and it'll taste much better."

I struggled with the decision of which soup to order, I even told the waitress that I don’t care much for soup in general. I finally settled on the broccoli and cream (mostly because it sounded so much like broccoli and cheddar.) They ran out of the Broccoli & Cream, so I ended up getting the Lentil. I finished ~ one fifth of my soup. It wasn’t good enough to take stand-alone sips, so whatever I had came from dipping my breadstick. The waitress even commented, “you didn’t like the soup?” to which I told her again that I wasn’t much of a soup guy. (I thought about saying to her, “Maam, if I was allergic to every single type of food on this planet except for that lentil soup, the next time you’d see me would be on TV wearing a spacesuit, about to board the first manned shuttle to ever go to Mars,, and they’d spotlight me because I was the one who successfully lobbied for the mission.”)

(Sidenote: I also came up with an idea while eating the soup. Why not have bread, or breadsticks, that come in the shape of bite sized soup spoons?) (I know its stupid, but so are a lot of things.)

Anyway, when the bill came, I took a second look at it because it was more than usual. The big difference of course was the Philly Cheese-steak, but I noticed another line item; $2.50 for the soup.

I felt violated. Why would the waitress play me for a fool like that?

She didn’t ask, “Would you like any soup with your meal?”

She asked, “What kind of soup would you like with your meal?”

She was fully aware that when she used the “What kind of soup would you like?” wording, it insinuated that the soup came free with the meal. Everyone knows that. The problem is that some people make the mistake of actually trusting her. People like me don’t ask the standard follow up question, “Does the soup come with my meal?” Because we don’t want to embarrass her by asking her a question that so clearly demonstrates our lack of trust in her.

I wanted to say to her, “How do you sleep at night? I’m sure that every night when you get tired… you change your clothes, turn off the lights, climb into bed, get under the covers, and close your eyes,,, but do you actually sleep? Or do you just lay there in bed, wide awake, unable to shake the guilt of knowing that the only people upon whom you are able to successfully prey, are also only ones who have given you their trust?”

I guess some people are just fucking ruthless.