Wednesday, May 18, 2005

It's Time to Play the Music

I was really about to do some work, really, I was all ready, with an armful of paper to photocopy, all gung-ho about duplicating seven hundred pages until I realized that no one had turned on the copier this morning, and the thing takes as long to warm up as it does for global climate change to occur, and so I turned it on, but then I was just standing around staring at the machine and looking conspicuously unproductive, so I absolutely had to sit back down and start typing something, so, y'know, here I am.

It's a sad truth that I'm shirking my duties in order to appear productive. It's sadder yet that an old Buick of a photocopier decides how my day will go. It can't copy more than one page at a time. It's olive green. It has no less than seventeen places where a sheet of paper can be jammed, yet invisible to the human eye. Still, it has more authority over my schedule than me, my boss, or the general beating of the great corporate heart.

I swear to god, I'm going to destroy it with my stapler. I'm going to punch it until my knuckles bleed. I know it's passe after Office Space to hate on office machines, but I don't think I've ever met a person, object, or situation as enraging as this photocopier.

If this were The Muppet Show, and if I were the guest star, and if all of the objects on my desk suddenly opened their camoflauged eyes and it became apparent that the textbooks and manilla folders and scissors and Kleenex box were not only sentient but also itching to sing, and, after some witty banter, if we launched into a great Vaudeville-style call and response number (maybe "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better?"), then the copy machine would be the downer baritone who growls something grumpy right in the middle of the song.

But this isn't The Muppet Show. If it were, the copier would get a WAH-WAAAAAAH on a muted trumpet, and my desk and I would jump right back into our rollicking melody. Instead, my little bitch of a tape dispenser watches me with stony contempt as I individually feed pages to the photocopier and mouth FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU YOU FUCKER I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU DID THIS AGAIN when it eats them.

Speaking of muppets on camera, I spent an hour last night watching Britney's tell-all, behind the scenes TV show. Scratch that. More accurately: I spent an hour last night spelunking Britney's nasal passages. Since my friend Brit has yet to master the finer points of zooming and the show was subsequently filled with intense facial close-ups, I can give an unqualified thumbs up to her oral hygiene.

People seem pretty eager to trash Britney after last night's show outed her from the dumb closet. But what did we expect, folks? She's a country girl with a G.E.D and a couple of albums about kissing boys under her belt. Did we truly believe somewhere, deep down, that she and Kevin sat at home baking souffle and reading Leaves of Grass to each other? At least she's nice to the people she works with; she seems geniunely chummy with everyone, from her pleasantly Dratch-a-like personal assistant to her backup dancers.

I'll own that it was a smidge creepy to hear her offer Mr. Federline the option of staying in and "fucking all day" instead of touring London, but, y'know, it was rainy out.

The most important thing to keep in mind about Britney and Kevin: Chaotic is that it has to be regarded properly to be enjoyed. Think of it as a six-part, slo-mo trainwreck, provided the train had been carrying a convoy of southern drag queens-- a couple awkward jolts, a smash, and a giant, confusing, smoky plume of glitter, MAC cosmetics, hair extensions, half-naked men.

And an Ouch, y'all! or two.

But now, following Britney and Kevin: Chaotic, we'd like to return you to your regularly scheduled programming, Kathy: Near Comatose. Stay tuned as she duplicates the next three hundred pages!

One. At. A. Time.


Anonymous brad said...

My, Kathy, with this one you certainly DID IT AGAIN. But what should we expect at this point? You aren't just funny SOMETIMES, you're funny EVERYTIME. You're NOT A BAD WRITER, and surprisingly, NOT YET A FAMOUS ONE. You're IN THE ZONE, and your words are inTOXICating. I'm ANTICIPATING your novel, and when you need a personal assistant of your own, I'll be happy to be a SLAVE 4 U. HIT ME, Kathy, with your wit and charm... just ONE MORE TIME.

12:08 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Oh I'll hit you alright...

12:56 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Well, that's your PREROGATIVE.

2:55 PM  
Anonymous brad said...

yeah, why don't you DO SOMETHIN'

3:28 PM  
Blogger Kunaxa said...

Wow, and I thought James Brownin' It just this past Friday was hard.

Ummm...I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet A Woman?

Who Goes Home Tonight? Please let it be Dorothy back to her cozy country dwelling of a farm.

5:04 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...


1:27 PM  

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