The day I called in sick

The day I called in sick was a day spent outside of time. My beard did not grow. No hairs fell from my head. My house was silent in the absence of the tick-tocking of the clocks. All the numbers disappeared from my wristwatch. Deprived of their usual purpose, the minute hand turned into a compass and pointed north, while the hour hand always pointed in the direction of the nearest washroom.

I travelled northerly that day and wanted not for clean facilities and liquid soap wherever I went. The world, so harsh and cruel at times, seemed to soften and yield to my will. I hungered, and there was food. Thirsted, and there was drink. If I had struck a Faustian bargain with this day, I had come out with the better half of the deal. Instead of losing my soul, I seemed to have regained it.

The day I called in sick stop signs bowed their faces at my approach. Yield signs laughed, embarrassed at themselves and strangely shy in my presence, and waved me on through every intersection.

The day I called in sick I saw Jesus eating lunch at Tasty Tom’s. “Why aren’t you at work?” he asked. “Why aren’t you?” I replied. He shrugged and returned to eating his garlic mushroom burger. There’s something so relaxed about a man who can confidently wear a dress in public.

The day I called in sick the street lamps lit up whenever I walked beneath them. Their eyes twinkled with envy.

The day I called in sick I went golfing, and I hate golfing. On this day, I could do anything, even the things I hate. And surely there is nothing quite so hateable as golfing.

Perhaps it is the groomed landscapes, which remind me not so much of walking through nature but a museum of nature, preserving the real through the fake. When all humanity is confined to 100-storey apartment towers and “green space” refers to the chair under the palm tree in the lobby, there will still be golf courses. When everyone has to wear external mechanical lungs that distil breathable oxygen from the poisoned atmosphere, people will still go out and hit a few rounds. “Apparently, that’s what they called a tree,” a man will casually remark as he readies his shot, pointing to a nearby plastic poplar. “But what does it do?” his partner will ask, adjusting the metal carapace strapped to his back, wheezing in irritation. “Nothing, apparently,” the man replies after he swings. The ball arcs magnificently, its whiteness blazing against the black sky. “The things primitives come up with. Well, even Stonehenge must have seemed practical and useful once upon a time.” The man’s partner squirms uncomfortably as he tries to find his stance at the tee. “God, it’s impossible to play with this thing on my back….”

But beyond that, I’m haunted by visions of hordes of managers and executives descending upon me, golf clubs held aloft, wielding their upper middle class privilege like the truncheon it is. As the nine-irons descend upon my bloodless face, all I hear is the nonsensical chant, “Hole-in-one! Hole-in-one!” The words blur together until they lose all form, becoming an arcane mystical incantation buried beneath my shrieks. Cold-sweat, waking up screaming, blanket wrapped around my leg like a serpent. No, it’s okay. Just a dream. They haven’t found me--not yet, anyway.

The day I called in sick the magpies developed laryngitis. They swooped from tree to tree in agitation, heads bobbing in mute fury as children did mocking imitations of their bird songs.

The day I called in sick I did not have to wait in line anywhere, not once. “Can’t you people see, today is the day I called in sick?” I would declare, and upon ascertaining my vigour, the people would gasp in awe and terror, dispersing like dandelion fuzz scattered to the wind. They intuitively grasped that if I could call in sick in this state of health, then I was surely capable of anything. I became god-like. They understood that I had vaulted out of the realms of mortality into a higher plane of existence that was beyond earthly concerns. I was immortal, if only for a day. Will they believe it years from now when I tell them? On my death-bed, will they laugh when I say I was immortal for a day? Will they scoff? Will the priest roll his eyes? “Hey, how did he get in here?” I’ll say hoarsely, pointing my pale finger at the man in the black cassock, who chomps on a cigar while fiddling with his Groucho moustache. “Yoink!” he’ll shout as he throws a balloon filled with holy water at me and jumps out the window.

The day I called in sick I wrote this.

The day I called in sick absolutely fucking rocked.

Love Thy Neighbor

Home is where you come to relax and escape the stress of work, right? Your home is your sanctuary or your refuge. I believe in all this and I am trying to fight for it to stay that way.

When we were first looking for houses I got a bit depressed and frustrated as all the houses were out of our budget. Then, I found this one that fit perfectly. We moved in last year and it has become my castle. I take pride in my house (although maybe I should vacuum more often), and I'm in the process of decorating it. The back yard will be getting a face lift this August too.

My home had become my oasis from stress until recently a family or pirates decided to set up camp near me.

Before you get all righteous and say I have no right to complain about my neighbors, lemme describe them to you.

First off, they have two kids - a little boy named Xavier and a little girl (still in diapers) named Mystique. Apparently, there's no correlation to the X-Men. Uh huh, that's what I said. Anyways, lemme continue. The woman (I don't know her name and could give two pieces of poo poo about it) has orange hair. I mean it's orange. It's like crayola color orange! When she talks there's this weird lisp that sounds like her mouth is full of saliva. It's almost like Sylvester the cat from Looney Tunes talking with a husky smokers voice. She ALWAYS wears cut off jeans and this old army green colored cap. Every time I see her, she's got a cigarette hanging from her mouth. You people think I cuss a lot? Honey, I've got nothing on this person. She can cuss like a sailor and carries herself like a guy without the extra appendage.

The guy (don't know his name and don't care to find out) has a deep voice. He's definitely younger than her. He's Mystique's dad (I think). He has a slouch about him when he walks. If he has his back to your left and is facing your right, it's like his body forms the shape of a C with two skinny white legs. Trust me, it's an odd sight to see. Whenever he does wear pants, he hikes them up so far that you can see his white socks (WHERE'S THE FASHION POLICE?!)

Ok, so with those short descriptions in your mind, I shall proceed with my complaining. Our houses aren't that far apart. I'd say they're probably four feet apart at best. To make matters worse, the walls aren't all that sound-proof. So, when my lovely, classy neighbors decide to play their music with the bass up really loud I can hear it in my house. There have been numerous times where we and other neighbors have told these idiots to turn the music down, yet they keep on doing it WITH the kids in the house.

Another problem I'm having is the trash. For the entire month of June, the trash man runs every Monday. The timing is pretty handy when you think about it. Say you have a shindig on Friday night and a whole bunch of trash, ok? The trash man runs on Monday so you won't have to hold on to all that junk for a long time. Anyways, these morons have not put their trash out in about a month (I'd say). So, now I have all these lovely black, shiny crows and the pretty white, grayish sea gulls in my back yard eating and digging into their trash that has scattered all over the place. I came home one day to a dirty diaper sitting in my back yard.

These people should get the Parent of the Year award too. Every time they have their kids in the car, they're speeding down the street (which is just barely wide enough to let one car pass) or they're speeding down the back alley with the bass up loud. How do you think the little kids' ears are going to be? I know the little ones can't help who their parents are, and you don't have to be an Einstein to get the impression that they weren't planned births.

Do you want to know what the real kicker is? With the two innocent kids in the house, there are several of us on the street who think these idiots deal drugs or do drugs out of their house. This past Friday evening, I could've sworn that I heard her say she "smokes one on the way to work." WTF?!

I wonder if I should follow the ten commandments or should I just f them up royally. Being a Catholic I know I'm gonna have to go to confession every day for a year to make up for whatever I do.

THE WAY WE WORK

Welcome to our blog. There are a bunch of us, because we all want a blog, but nobody wants to be responsible for daily upkeep. Cause we're lazy like that.

So here's the way it's going to work:

1. No discussing work (except in the most vague terms).
2. We are trying to remain anonymous, so no blowing each other's covers.
3. There may be multiple posts on some days and no posts on others--readers should make a note of this and scroll down to see if they've missed anything. It's important that every single word is read.
4. Every person and every company has a code name...it'll be fun.