State Og Update: 10.08.05

State Og

Don't be alarmed or anything, but we seem to have misplaced the Doomsday Device and the Doomsday Device Tracking Device, which in retrospect we probably shouldn't have duct taped to the Doomsday Device itself. If you come across any particularly doomsday-ish shaped objects in your everyday travels, please get ahold of us immediately. Yes, we already checked under the Doomsday Couch's cushions. Special thanks this week go to: Don "Motorcycle" Jolly.

Dope

Don't make this hard on me, Sam.

You’re like a goddamn son to me. Do you know that? A goddamn son. I don’t think I’ve ever told you. I can be pretty uptight sometimes. But when I hired you, how long ago? 15 years? I knew it was a good decision. We work in a tough business Sam. You need huge balls – to use as a life preservers. A schmuck in our business with diminutive testes sinks right to the bottom of the pool and ground up, Sam. But not you. Like fucking airline seat cushions, your balls.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like you – and more than that, I respect you.

Yeah, I’ve had a few. I’m the director of this whole office. Why can’t I? I got a right. Listen up, Sam.

What’s with you lately, man?

This company used to be your life. You’d be in the office at 8:30 every morning, totally making coffee and just relaxing. And I’d come in and it’d be all knowing smiles and little hand-language and the unflappable bond of two men joined at the business gland. You used to be a go-getter. But not anymore. It’s breaking my balls, Sam.

Like last week, when I asked you to come in on Sunday and help me get those KISS dolls out of the claw machine at Denny’s across the street. “C’mon, Sam,” I said, “We can get some Meat Lover’s Bowls.” It would’ve been tight as hell. What kind of excuse is “my daughter is sick” anyway?

It’s a pussy excuse, Sam. And we both know it.

Or a few months ago, when you wanted time off to go to your mom’s funeral – when you KNEW, SPECIFICALLY KNEW, that it was the day I had planned for us to blow up shit in the parking lot. A year or two ago, you would have been so down for that you’d be below sea level. What happened? It took forever to requisition all that nitro from the HR department. I mean, I still blew stuff up. With Bob. But, you know, it’s Bob.

My superiors are putting pressure on me, Sam. I don’t know how long I can keep defending you. They want you liquidated. No, that’s not a clever euphemism for fired. They want you put in a giant blender and hit with sharp until you become liquid.

It’s not pretty, Sam. But I’m just the messenger.

The bottom line here is that you’ve been neglecting me, neglecting the job, in favor of this dumb tart you knocked up. This kid, this girl … they’re killing us, Sam. They’re killing the office.

And, you know, I always thought of you succeeding me. I’m getting on in the years, Sam. You think I like having my legs replaced with ass-mounted rollerblades? I don’t like it Sam, I don’t like it at all.

And with you flaking out, I don’t know who’ll replace me when my heart finally gives out. I had my fifth heart attack last week, you know. They think if they replace my arteries with a K’Nex Ferris wheel that I’ll… never mind.

Sam, we can fix this. Take a look. Right here, in my desk, is a special treat for corporate.

No, it’s not a normal gun. It’s got special bullets. They go into your head, and they set every part of your brain that remembers your wife and child on fire. Completely painless, once it stops incinerating your brain.

I am your friend, Sam. I thought you understood that. It takes a real friend to do something like this. Who needs a kid anyway?

Next week, dude, when you wake up, we’ll go explode an office chair over by the dumpster. The stuffing and shit will and fly out and you’ll be like, “dope.” And I’ll just smile and agree. Because, make no mistake, it will be dope.