Hey Gang,
Happy Hump Day!! I usually like to start off the work week with a blog, but there was nothing much to report--until today.
So, I just got back from my 11am Starbucks-procrastination run. I was gone for roughly 14 minutes. I come back to find some emails in my inbox in which our publisher (the magazine's overseer, if you will) suggests I emcee a presentation at our upcoming weekend-long painting event.
His exact description was "the painting smack-down on Friday."
Yes, a painting "smack-down."
(*Rolling my eyes so far I'm looking at my amygdala*)
This is why I like to keep personal and work life separate. After I was put on blast for being a comedian, my office thinks I'm the court jester. What they don't understand is that my humour is usually bitter, racial, sexual, and generally NSFW--even my television debut involved me cupping my own breasts!!
What's worse is that they have me teaming up with my office nemesis. I'm sure I've mentioned her. She's the newest employee who lost me the moment she wore leggings and cowboy boots on her first day of work, and goes further in the red every time she says "Have a good one!" and "bye-ya!" at the end of each day. Oh yeah, and in the morning she says "hiya!" It's like I'm talking to a hostess at Chili's. I just want to shake her and be like, "ARE YOU GOING TO OFFER ME SOUTHWESTERN EGG ROLLS FOR LUNCH??"
What's even better is that she, yet again, put my name in the running for something that I have no interest in doing. Looking back over the previous emails in the chain (that I hadn't been included in), she was first asked to emcee on her own. She writes:
"I think that’d be fun. Though I can’t promise nonstop laughs—that’s [Sojourner's] department!!"
Of course, this prompts the overseer to respond with:
"What if you and Sojourner did this together - treat it like a football game, with an analyst and a color commentator? The two of you would be fabulous!"
I think what he meant was colored commentator.
He even said in one of the previous emails, "Our emcee picture has gotten a bit middle-aged-white-guy heavy. Would you like to do the color commentary piece for the painting smack-down on Friday?"
If I had a nickel for every time things got too middle-aged-white-guy heavy, I'd have $45.30. Am I right, or am I right?
Of course, I can't say no. I'll be attending the entire weekend, and it's not like I have anything else to do at that time. I'm there on the company's dime, which means I'm also on the clock 24/7.
Of course, some of you may be thinking, "that's cool, Sojo! You can use your blackting skills at work!"
But guys, this isn't my forte. The California retiree crowd isn't exactly the blacktress' target audience. They want me to "use my skills," without actually being myself, which is pretty hard work if you ask me. What kind of jokes can I make about oil paint? I'm pretty sarcastic, and don't have the passion for art that my nemesis has--I could end up making fun of her out loud in front of hundreds of Caucasians! It could be the end of the blacktress as we know it!
I kind of want to just act really dumb, like Pepper Brooks in Dodgeball (one of my favorite films--yep, I said it.) This is the moment when Jason Bateman came back for me:
I love when he says "Ouchtown, population you, bro!!!"
There's got to be a way to bring that in to a painting "smack-down". Someone's gonna get cut with a bristle brush, I can feel it!
Showing posts with label Dodgeball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dodgeball. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Thursday, August 28, 2008
My Very Own Crocodile Hunter / Total Request BLOG
Whoa, guys. Three posts in one-day. I am putting in some serious over-time.
No, seriously, I'm at work after hours.
As you know, this blog can get rather scandalous. As you also know, some people can’t always handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the (Sojourner) truth. And, although I’d love some blog traffic (I do have high hopes of becoming an internet celebrity), I don’t go telling every Tom, Dick, and Hairy Dick about my blog. But sometimes I get myself in serious trouble.
See, I have these biz-nass cards, and they pretty have all the information one could ever need to track me down and internet-stalk me—name, email address, phone number, and blog URL. Sometimes, when I’m trying to appear cool and nonchalant, I’ll give a potential suitor my card, and the next thing you know, I’m getting a call that says, “Oh, so you went out with a kiwi.”
Other times, I’m just being conceited and want to show them something funny.
That’s what happened last week when I was talking to my mate--um, let's just call him Wally Balls—which is Australian for “Cool Guy” (you know, the way Foster’s is Australian for “Beer”). He and I met a while back, and you know how I get about a rugged foreign man with an accent. At first, he was playing me like a game of Chinese checkers, all hard-to-get and disinterested, but I reeled him in with my knowledge of quotes from Anchorman and Dodgeball (I think I sealed the deal when I looked in his eyes dreamily and said "You had me at blood and semen.") Finally, we kicked it old school at a bar (The Australian, of course), and didn’t leave until the house lights came on at 2am on a weeknight.
Needless to say, he had love for a blacktress.
Wally Balls is very down with the brown. He played pro basketball in his homeland, and knows the lyrics to a few too many rap songs—but it’s so cute when he gets all “street tough” ‘cause he has that accent of his!
Sorry, I digress.
I think Australian men may be a bit high-maintenance, seeing as Wally Balls is really giving me a hard time about not getting a shout-out in the blacktress's diary—I think it’s cause I mentioned the Kiwi so many times. So, in honor of my dear Australian mate, here’s some TRUTH:
When the Aussie and I first met, I thought it was behoovy of me to have sexual relations with him—you know, so I could do a test-run of Australian men before I headed down under—but now that I’m a man-hating lesbian, it’s not really in the cards.
The thing is, though, I really like hanging out with him and am drawn to him. He is burly. He is foreign. I can sit on his lap. He laughs at my jokes. Like T-Pain (and Jesse McCartney), he’s quick to buy me a drank. And he can hold his liquor far better than I can. Which basically means that after a couple of hours together, I kind of want him to put his P in my V.
This makes things semi-awkward. But I kind of love it.
But I also know that if we ever consummate our magical, tender, interracial love, we will never speak again and it will go from semi-awkward to more awkward than a middle school dance. And I'm trying to live like Mary J.-- no more drama.
There is nothing I love more than a foreign friend. Okay, maybe I love eating carbs more, but it’s still on my list. And certainly, I think sexual tension keeps things fun.
I don’t know, am I crazy?
There, Wally Balls, are you happy now?
No, seriously, I'm at work after hours.
As you know, this blog can get rather scandalous. As you also know, some people can’t always handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the (Sojourner) truth. And, although I’d love some blog traffic (I do have high hopes of becoming an internet celebrity), I don’t go telling every Tom, Dick, and Hairy Dick about my blog. But sometimes I get myself in serious trouble.
See, I have these biz-nass cards, and they pretty have all the information one could ever need to track me down and internet-stalk me—name, email address, phone number, and blog URL. Sometimes, when I’m trying to appear cool and nonchalant, I’ll give a potential suitor my card, and the next thing you know, I’m getting a call that says, “Oh, so you went out with a kiwi.”
Other times, I’m just being conceited and want to show them something funny.
That’s what happened last week when I was talking to my mate--um, let's just call him Wally Balls—which is Australian for “Cool Guy” (you know, the way Foster’s is Australian for “Beer”). He and I met a while back, and you know how I get about a rugged foreign man with an accent. At first, he was playing me like a game of Chinese checkers, all hard-to-get and disinterested, but I reeled him in with my knowledge of quotes from Anchorman and Dodgeball (I think I sealed the deal when I looked in his eyes dreamily and said "You had me at blood and semen.") Finally, we kicked it old school at a bar (The Australian, of course), and didn’t leave until the house lights came on at 2am on a weeknight.
Needless to say, he had love for a blacktress.
Wally Balls is very down with the brown. He played pro basketball in his homeland, and knows the lyrics to a few too many rap songs—but it’s so cute when he gets all “street tough” ‘cause he has that accent of his!
Sorry, I digress.
I think Australian men may be a bit high-maintenance, seeing as Wally Balls is really giving me a hard time about not getting a shout-out in the blacktress's diary—I think it’s cause I mentioned the Kiwi so many times. So, in honor of my dear Australian mate, here’s some TRUTH:
When the Aussie and I first met, I thought it was behoovy of me to have sexual relations with him—you know, so I could do a test-run of Australian men before I headed down under—but now that I’m a man-hating lesbian, it’s not really in the cards.
The thing is, though, I really like hanging out with him and am drawn to him. He is burly. He is foreign. I can sit on his lap. He laughs at my jokes. Like T-Pain (and Jesse McCartney), he’s quick to buy me a drank. And he can hold his liquor far better than I can. Which basically means that after a couple of hours together, I kind of want him to put his P in my V.
This makes things semi-awkward. But I kind of love it.
But I also know that if we ever consummate our magical, tender, interracial love, we will never speak again and it will go from semi-awkward to more awkward than a middle school dance. And I'm trying to live like Mary J.-- no more drama.
There is nothing I love more than a foreign friend. Okay, maybe I love eating carbs more, but it’s still on my list. And certainly, I think sexual tension keeps things fun.
I don’t know, am I crazy?
There, Wally Balls, are you happy now?
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