As much as I hate to admit it, America just doesn't get it.

Let me set the scene for you… as I've made mention of before, every time I cruise I-95 en route to work, I see many of the same drivers day in and day out. Hard to believe that amongst the hundreds upon hundreds of motorists, I would be able to pick out maybe a dozen or so that have repeat sightings attached to their being. But it's true. Normally, this is discovered by way of whatever bumper sticker adorns their ride. Example: I've encountered a fellow Skidmore alumnus several times while braving the deadlock. When you kill this much time in bumper-to-bumper traffic, you just notice these things.

Now, there's this one car that I've seen many a time during the morning and evening commute. Make and model are unimportant… in short, this car has a French flag sticker on the bumper, and in the rear window, there's an upside down American flag.

Now, Connecticut is quite a liberal state, wealthy population notwithstanding. So this character is, more than likely, making some thinly veiled political statement at the current state of the union. However, in his perhaps anti-American (or possibly anti-administration) display of zeal, he did bring to light something that I have been dwelling on for far too long.

That is the fact that we as Americans are short on happiness, high on stress, and lost in life. One recurring theme throughout this blog, especially over the course of the last year, has been the fact that society places extreme pressure on us to succeed. I don't know enough about economics to put that blame on capitalism per se, but I think it's clear that America thrives on commerce, and commerce thrives on the blood, sweat and tears of the average human being just trying to make ends meet. That being said, it is often quite difficult for said average person to really enjoy life to any meaningful extent.

I was, for quite a long time following my last post, going to write a lengthy piece about America's pursuit of happiness and how seemingly elusive it really is. The catalyst for that post was the fact that I had a conversation with a close friend who had just started seeing a really great guy that made her happy. However, she was uncertain that her parents wouldn't accept him, and because of that fear, her ability to enjoy the relationship was hindered. Similarly, I had just found a great place to live by myself, and despite this fact I was burdened with mortgage red tape, payments, and the inevitable process of moving itself. And yet here we were, two reasonably intelligent, capable 20-somethings with really good things in our lives… and yet we were unable to enjoy them.

The thrust of this piece was going to be the fact that our society, for whatever reason, simply prevents us from attaining happiness. However, as time went on and I planned the piece, I notice something happening… I was putting it off daily. This alone took me over two weeks to write, which is very uncustomary of me. See, I normally like to follow a single thought once it hits and see it through to the end. However, with a recent shake-up in my division at work, my workload has increased dramatically, and I myself have been so overwhelmed that even regular trips to the gym are becoming a chore.

Overworked with not enough sleep under my belt on a daily basis, I began to come to grips with the fact that no matter what job I take, as long as it's big business, it will always be like this in some way. There will always be extreme amounts of work, late hours, new and challenging tasks, frustrations, stresses, and not nearly enough compensation or appreciation. Now I recently received my six-month review, and I did OK for myself. I seem to be grasping things well, and received a decent little raise for myself, but… that is not nearly enough to make me want to stay with this outfit for the rest of my days. No, dear reader… I cannot see myself doing that.

And this is after I moved 30 miles closer to my office… before that, I was literally up every morning at 5:30, out the door by 7:15, in the office between 8:30 and 9:00 (depending on traffic), out of the office between 5:00 and 5:30 (depending on the workload), and back home around 6:00 and 6:30. I was so beat, that I would take daily naps in my car during my lunch breaks. I'll even go so far as to spare the time I spent at the gym from being factored into this equation, and do the math that by the time I finish my day, from the time I woke up to the time I touched down, it was on average about 12-13 hours. That's freakin' disgusting, and I know for a fact that I'm not the only guy who has made such a commute. Hell, for that matter, there are folks who have commuted even further to their offices. Chew on that.

I remember when I was looking for work, and so many people told me, "Remember, you've got the rest of your life to work." That is so sadly true, and a fact that I abhor. And I know that I would probably not have to endure such a tedious routine if I did not live in this country.

Now I'm not sure how it is in more rural areas of the nation… truthfully, I've never been to such locales. However, in the northeast, northern Midwest and other areas of major commerce where there are large cities and companies to boot, your livelihood is predicated on your output within the cube, plain and simple. And the company dictates your life.

It's funny, I spoke with a co-worker earlier today who got reamed out because she took half-days for the rest of the week to be with her son who is home alone. Her husband travels a lot, so it's difficult to always be there for him. She actually agreed to bring work home with her so she wouldn't fall behind. She came in a half-hour late today and got the business for it. A half-hour. Think about that. What gets accomplished in that small time frame to begin with? The answer is probably not too much. But that is business for you… the company over the individual.

I spoke to an acquaintance not too long ago who recently got his review, and the one glaring item on it was the fact that in terms of his ranking, he put the customer first, then himself, then the company. That was their only complaint. Imagine that. Putting yourself above the company… How dare he! Heck, I don't even think I would put the customer above myself. It's not that I'm selfish, but how can I put someone I've never even seen before on a higher plateau than myself? To me, that's not a question of company loyalty, that's a question of common sense. If the company is so much more important than the individual, why do upper-level managers get more vacation time? Why do they use that vacation time? Why is it that some of them only work partial weeks? I'm having trouble figuring that one out.

Another very close friend (the aforementioned individual with the boyfriend "crisis") works in New York for a PR firm, and for a week straight, she worked every night past 10:00 PM. You're talking a 14-hour marathon every day discounting her commute. That, my friends, is just exquisite bullshit. No one should have to put in those kind of insane hours, ever. Even if they're willing.

But like I said… this is the American culture. Put in your 40-plus a week, earn your keep, and always reach for the brass ring. Well the brass ring doesn't always have to be a faster car or bigger house… I believe the real brass ring lay within. Cliché as it may sound, I really feel that there is something altogether internal that we as Americans miss out on because of the madness the culture dictates. I could be wrong, but chalk it up to one man's opinion.

Now Europe, however, is a completely different scene. The people over there, while perhaps overly nationalistic, still "get it." They know how to live, man. You go over to Greece, Spain or Italy, and those folks work a few hours, go home and take a nap, finish work, then go out all night and party. Wake up, lather, rinse, repeat. And those people are living longer, healthier lives than us Yanks. Don't kid yourselves, folks, it goes way beyond just the diet… it's the lifestyle, the daily routine, the culture itself that is keeping those people in healthier states than us. I would be very interested to go so far as to compare the numbers regarding people in therapy and/or on medication between the U.S. and Europe. I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers reveal that the U.S. has a greater population (per capita, of course) of people in treatment. I mean, c'mon, what do people in Europe have to get stressed out over or worried about?

Let me tell you something, my one surviving Grandparent is straight over from Greece. He is going to be 92 years old this coming January, and he's healthy as ever. He walks 5 miles a day, eats well, and has always been a workhorse. I'm convinced he'll live to see 100 just because that's how tough he is… but the secret to his long life has come through his lifestyle. He's been a man of a strong work ethic and a low stress level. Since day one, he has called the shots for himself, whether it be on the farm in his native village, behind the wheel of an ice cream truck in Waterbury, or slaving over a hot stove in the restaurant in New Haven. He has been the master of his own destiny since day one, and that is why we as Americans miss out on life so much. We let others govern our paths rather than take charge ourselves.

What I'm getting at is that the condition of our society itself will not allow us to easily select our lot in life… no matter how hard we work.

Dear reader, if you haven't already, I urge you to see Office Space. Trust me, you'll be a better person for it, and you'll also get a peak at corporate America at its finest. This film is frightfully accurate in its portrayal of the utterly absurd "office dynamic." Granted, some things like Milton and the stapler may be extreme, but for the most part, this film captures the mundane at its best, and is able to depict life in the corporate environment with razor sharp wit and precision. In short, the big dogs don’t care about the drones. They don’t give a shit about the cogs that make up the machine. So long as they make their money and get their eight weeks vacation time, they’re fine with whatever goes on.

In my division alone, three people have vanished in the last month. One has been transferred, two have up and quit, one of them without any prior notice. Doesn’t exactly make me look at things with enthusiastic candor, decent review notwithstanding.

So while this French motorist may have been making a strong political statement, he was also right about something else… America is in distress and needs help, but from within. While it may seem impossible, I feel that there are certain aspects of our culture, certain norms that need to be turned inside out, or else we will simply implode under the strain. It’s that simple, people. Either our nation takes it easy a bit, or we drive ourselves mental because the boss told us to.

So the question is, do I plan on staying with this outfit forever, dooming myself to bitching about my stapler and ordering stamps for an eternity? Hell, no. For that matter, do I plan on staying in business forever? No dear reader, I think for myself, I will be pursuing other more creative options as means to earn a living and be happy. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’ve seen what I don’t want, and that is only going to lead me closer to what I do want.

It reminds me of my father’s blurb in his high school yearbook… A line that said he “believes life is meant to be lived easy.”

This coming from a man who ultimately spent the bulk of his life working as a foreman in factories. As much as I love my father, I think for myself, I will try to live by that mantra, and break away from the chain of madness our society has adopted. God willing, either America will wake up (which it needs to do anyway) and stop beating itself up just to be #1 in everything, or I’ll be able to earn my keep comfortably and still be able to be happy and content with myself and my life. Hopefully I’ll be able to bring a little slice of Europe into my world, and get by each day with a nap under my belt and a smile on my face.

Crazy? Maybe. Plausible? Why not? Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

This may come as a shock to most of you, but I take pride in my stupid little blog.

Don’t ask me why, but I do. Beyond my way of just venting my frustrations about this ricockulous world we live in, I also like to think that it’s my way of enriching the masses. And by “masses,” I mean the half-dozen people that actually read this thing. Be that as it may, I never intended for this to be a personal extension of my everyday life, which seems to be the average blog these days.

Now admittedly, in the early days of LSS, way back in the fall of ’02, I would gripe a lot about the situations I encountered at graduate school, and I suppose that in a way, that could be considered a source of pointless bitching. I’ll concede to that much, but I’d also like to point out that on the flipside of that coin, my frequent complaints were often used as anecdotal segues into more elaborate rants about the pitfalls of our modern education system, and the troglodytes that inhabit both the administrations and student bodies.

And that's the thing. Even when I was on about how '04 was a miserable year for me, I was still able to extend that feeling of discontent with my personal life and apply it to the big picture of what was (and for that matter, still is) going on in the world. When I do lengthy posts, if I can't apply my sad little existence on this rock to something infinitely bigger and uglier, I'm wasting my time.

No, I truly believe that my intent in creating this blog was, and always has been, to offer a podium for myself to preach from. Call it the “soapbox” effect. That’s where I stand on my soapbox, offer up my opinions with my own brand of logic and uncommon sense, and you either agree or disagree with me. And yes, not everyone that reads my stuff is in agreement with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never claimed to be the end-all, be-all fountain of information. I can only talk about the things I believe to be true or unsettling about life, plain and simple.

What saddens me is that I find my personal brand of writing on the web to be something of a lost art. And that’s not to sound pretentious and say that I’m the daddy of the mack-daddy when it comes to editorials and the like. More accurately, I find these types of blogs or forums to be a dying breed. People on the Internet don’t seem to have opinions anymore. Have you noticed this? Unless you happen to be a Star Wars fanatic who is more than content to bitch about Jar Jar and the fact Revenge Of The Sith offered no explanation as to how Darth Vader goes to the bathroom with that suit on.

My theory is that he has a pee-latch.

But seriously… unless you’re the beloved kind of übergeek that prowls message boards trying to unravel the mysteries of Lost and Lindsay Lohan’s weight loss, the fact is that most of us who do post anything on the Internet in any type of forum pretty much kvetch about the mundane goings-on in our meager little lives.

Not for nothing, but I really don’t want to know what’s irking you.

I don’t care who your friends are, I don’t care what you’re listening to right now, I don’t care what your mood is, I don’t care how Von Goethe and The Crow changed your life, I don’t care what you did (or didn’t do) this past Saturday night, and I certainly don’t care to hear about all the so-called “drama” that permeates your wretched existence, capice?

I’m sure you’re probably wondering what brought on this diatribe to end all diatribes, and I’ll tell you. Several months ago, I was dating a girl who shall remain nameless. My blog inspired her to create her own. I seem to have this effect on people. Difference being that her blog is a window to her life, whereas I prefer to think of our blogs as a window to our thoughts. There’s a big difference.

We have long since broken up, and while I have nothing against her personally, I also have no interest in seeing her again, plain and simple. But I have noticed that over the last few months, her posts have gotten increasingly personal, and downright pig-headed in their arrogance. Now chalk this up to hubris, or just being a moody girl in your early 20’s, but trying to read these things without stabbing myself in my scrotum is like trying to sit through an episode of Fat Actress without stabbing myself in my scrotum. Damn near impossible.

To begin with, this sparks the entire, “what-the-hell-did-I-ever-see-in-you” curiosity factor, where I am forced to question my own judgment since at one point I dated such a unbelievably conceited, petty excuse for a human being.

But that’s just the tip of the irritable iceberg. In having perused this person’s blog, I have also browsed the comments left on her posts by others. Naturally, these third parties are friends… but the bulk of the comments in response to her words all pertain to overly-hyped, overly-dramatic situations of the 90210 variety.

That’s right. Not only are these posts regarding incidents that are highly personal, and better left unknown to the Internet community, but all parties involved are now getting in on the action, so eager to share their side of the story, making for one mother of a clusterfuck.

This is what pisses me off. Y’know, journals are not meant to be shared, which is probably why I never opted to do this thing on livejournal.com. I want my personal problems and relations to remain as such. They’re in my hands, and I’m more than happy to deal with them either by myself or with the assistance of a select circle of friends and family. I don’t see the need to share such woes with a few billion people.

By that same rationale, I really don’t care to know what’s going on in other peoples’ lives. At least not at that deep a level. Nor do I see the reason why anyone would want to read such drivel. I suppose to some extent, it’s the same innate, sick curiosity that draws the masses to reality television. And I’m sure that for the writers’ relations, it’s an even stronger pull considering that the main party is known to them.

But seriously… I really don’t give a fuck.

I don’t expect what I do to become the norm. I accept the fact that I’m a minority in this tangled worldwide web, and not only do I acknowledge that notion, but I embrace it. I like being the castaway content to run my own little gravy train, and I openly invite anyone who likes a good read to give my stuff a looksie.

But as welcome as you all are to partake in my opinions, ramblings and perspectives, I simply do not want you all to know how so-and-so went behind so-and-so’s back, or how John Doe, Mrs. Butterworth and I all went to see Kung Fu Hustle last Tuesday and some guy in the front row streaked the place.

I should mention that at one point, I was heavily considering posting a link this individual’s blog just to give you an idea of the sort of rot I’m talking about. But I’ve since reconsidered this. Now that's not because I'm trying to be the bigger person post-breakup or anything. After all, you do know how I love to burst the bubble of big bullshitters, and this would've been a prime opportunity to do so.

No, I simply rethought things and figured that since she already seems comfortable sharing this crap with so many… why vindicate her misgivings?

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

It’s been a while since this has happened, but I encountered something this week that truly disgusted me. No exaggeration, it turned my freakin’ stomach.

Tuesday afternoon, I was driving home from my job in Norwalk on 95. Now, I’m sure most of you are at least vaguely familiar with the infamous I-95, but for those of you who aren’t, let me just tell you, having to drive this fucker every day is one of the most painful experiences you could possibly imagine. Thank God I’m moving to Milford soon, because I’m already spending upwards of three hours a day driving.

Since 95 moves slower than the Olsen twins at a buffet line, you often get a good view of your commuting neighbors in the lane next to you. So while driving on this gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, listening to a little Billy Joel to unwind the nerves after work, I see coming up on my right, in the middle lane, a white Mitsubishi convertible with the top down being driven by a 20-something blonde tart with a pair of Oakley’s. Now, as if this wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, the capper to it all is the fact that she’s got a Chihuahua perched immediately behind her, looking over the side of the door at this Red Sea of cars that just doesn’t want to seem to part.

A Chihuahua.

It was at this point that the windows in my car rolled down, the volume on the stereo went up, and “Captain Jack” changed without warning to “5 Minutes Alone” by Pantera. Appropriate song, since I would’ve loved 5 minutes alone with this petite princess to chew her out.

Now, before you condemn me for jumping to conclusions and labeling this li’l missy a prissy little Paris rip-off with a ginormous bitch switch, let me tell you something, my friend…

Yesterday (Friday), while driving to work… not from, to… I just happened across the same Mitsubishi convertible, unrecognizable at first since the top was up. But lo and behold, who should be behind the wheel but Princess. And still at the upholstered perch was precious little Chi-Chi, her oversized rodent of a status symbo—I mean dog looking out the window at the slow-moving line of cars.

Windows down, “Say Hello 2 Heaven” by Temple Of The Dog switches to “Stronger Than Death” by Black Label Society.

Why the overload of metal music on my behalf? Because this young lady obviously needs a very loud wake-up call, and what better way to offer that up than in the form of heavy riffs, rapid-fire solos and a blood-curdling vocal? She needs to be exposed to another side of life: the side slightly less ugly than either the lifestyle she promotes or the rhinoplasty she got for her Sweet 16. The side of life most of us (I should hope) dwell in. Cold, hard reality. The type that's not pretty in pink or even feasible in fusca. The type of life that has problems, conflicts, compromises, and stresses that go beyond your favorite tanning salon shutting down.

You have to look at it this way: on Tuesday, it’s quite possible she was coming home from a friend’s house or a party or something else. However, if she’s driving 95 at 8:00 in the AM, there’s a 99% chance she’s going to a job of some sort.

Now, whatever this young kitten does for money (insert prostitution pun here), whatever her line of work is, you have to ask yourself… why the hell is she bringing a Chihuahua to work?! Even if she’s a veterinarian, what’s she doing, bringing her work home with her? I’m sorry, that doesn’t jibe.

So that’s why I opted for such a heavy musical selection. This kid needs a major reattachment to good sound terra firma.

Look, she may be the nicest kid on earth, but I take issue with anyone that carries around a Chihuahua these days. Paris and Britney have turned these poor, once-ridiculed and fast food-exploited canines and turned them into representatives of their ritzy roots. No, folks… odds are this estrogen-infused humanoid is no vet. More likely she works at Abercrombie & Fitch in the Danbury Fair Mall while living off of mummy and daddy’s trust fund and the hard-scrubbing hands of their Mexican houseboy.

Look, I’m an animal lover. Especially dogs. I want one eventually, but have held off for a long time because at this time in my life, I don’t have the time to devote to properly caring for one. I’m not one to dive headfirst into responsibility if I know that I can’t live up to the commitment. So when some tarnished little princess struts around with Chihuahua in hand (or purse, as I’ve seen from time to time), basically flaunting her bankbook and fashionable duds and digs, my iPod turns iRate, and so do I.

People wonder why I’m so down on American society from the upper echelon right down to the mere mortals, and it’s shit like this that fortifies my mindset. When you use another carbon-based life form, be it a dog or a child (soccer moms, I’m looking your way… get out of the Suburban and stop snorting Astroturf) to say something about yourself, I consider you an enemy of the state of Rick, and you’re susceptible to the possibility of capital punishment in the form of a good tongue-lashing on ye olde Landshark blog. And the only reason my sentences never get past that is because U.S. law conflicts with Rick’s law, and neither are in sync with Murphy’s law. I won’t even begin to get into Carlito’s way, either.

And I’m being serious when I say this: I really think the ASPCA should hunt these people down and charge them with animal abuse. Because these little girls are not dog lovers. How can you call yourself a dog lover when you’re clearly too in love with yourself? I’m willing to bet that while these girls are doting as all hell, they’re still not providing these poor critters with the TLC that they so richly deserve. And as if that isn’t criminal enough, they parade the damn thing around like a new belly button piercing or ankle tattoo. Not that I have anything against piercings or tattoos, but I’d much rather they have some kind of relevance to the proud owner, and the same goes for pets. If you’re going to own a dog, own it because you love it, not because it’s the trendy thing to do.

So unless you want me to tie you into a straightjacket, tape your eyelids open and Clockwork Orange you into watching House Of Wax uninterrupted for a fortnight, either give your Chihuahua to someone who actually gives a damn or ship him to Tijuana.

And for fuck’s sake, don’t let a dog that weighs less than four pounds lean out the side of your convertible on I-95 you stupid, stupid slag!

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

I've noticed something over the last few months.

You know those ultra-hip yellow Livestrong wristbands that Lance Armstrong has marketed for cancer research? I dig 'em. I like what they stand for, and I particularly like the fact that they're stylish withoug being trendy (or pretentious). Teh fact that the money from each purchase goes straight to cancer research is a huge plus with me. So yeah, on the whole I really like them, which is probably why I own one (along with half my office).

However, have you noticed that while these things pull off the unthinkable by making banana yellow cool, they don't look good on fat people at all?

Now, by "fat," I don't mean someone who has a small gut, beer belly, or even a paunch. I'm talking about the so-called "morbidly obese" that seem to be growing in both per capita population and waistline each year. They really just don't look good on these people. At all.

I first noticed this one night two months ago down at the gym. I was going through my routine when this fat kid comes in. He's maybe 6' and change, but is clearly overweight. The first thing I noticed (besides his size) was how young he was. Probably no more than 14 or 15. The second thing I noticed was that he was doing every single exercise wrong. I tried to help him, but he maintained that he used to lift and knew what he was doing. Nearly two full months later, he's not only still doing them wrong, but he's brought down the weight to make it easier. The third thing I noticed was his Livestrong band. They do stick out because of their color, and also because it seems like everyone owns one now. But it really didn't look that hip on him.

It just looked out of place, like it accidentally found its way onto his wrist. Of course, this was all compounded by the fact that the kid is a total chump. But I have noticed these items on other grossly overweight individuals, and they just don't look right.

It is therefore my assertion that, on a purely subconscious level, seeing a Livestrong bracelet on an extremely overweight person is not aesthetically pleasing. On a subterranean level, your mind tells you, "What business does someone that size have promoting health through his fashion statement? From the look of him, he should be wearing a wristband that promotes hunger strikes, because his belly is promoting Wendy's late-night drive-thru window."

Well, maybe only my mind tells me that last bit.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

The Pope wants me dead.

Now, I'm not Catholic. Those of you who know me are aware that I'm a Greek Orthodox Christian, so I've never had a reason to pay any attention to the Pope. But that's not why he wants me dead. He doesn't event want me dead because I'm not Catholic. There's a far deeper reason for the Pope's loathing for me.

You see, back at Skidmore, I auditioned for a sketch comedy troupe appropriately named the Sketchies. Although I never was a full-fledged member, I was an extra in two skits, the first of which was "Varsity Green." This was a take on Varsity Blues that juxtaposed football with Ultimate Frisbee (the average Skiddie/Hippie's sport of choice, commonly played on the campus green, hence the name). My role was that of a nameless walk-on player. Harmless stuff... it's the second skit that really fired up Juan Pablo Dos.

"The Adventures Of Popeman And Cardinal."

This was a take-off on the old Batman TV show with Adam West and Burt Ward. Considering how campy and kitschy the original product was, you can only imagine what the parody had to offer.

Popeman and Cardinal live their lives as average everyday Christians, and spend their days watching televangelists and PAX. But when sin is on the horizon, they receive a call from the Commish.

Jesus Christ.

That's right. The Sketchies set up a phone with a little light-up plastic Jesus that would flicker when the phone rang. On the other end, a dirty hippie named Gareth with long hair and a fake beard posing as the Lord, our Savior.

I'm so going to Hell for this.

So J.C. plays the part of Commissioner Gordon, instructing Popeman and Cardinal to jump into action when all that is good and holy is in danger. After He wishes His boys good luck ("...And may my Dad be with you"), these two mild-mannered Bible-thumpers become the Dynamic Duo, the Papal Pair, Popeman and Cardinal. Popeman adorns the massive Pope hat that we've all come to know and love along with a white tunic, and a large red "P" on his chest a la Superman. Cardinal, on the other hand, sports a red tunic with a small yellow "C" encased within a black circle, and wears a black mask in the style of Robin or Kato.

Straight to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

In this week's episode (which is the only episode to date), the malevolent Dr. Polygamy, a rogue monk entrenched in a harem of wives, is planning to rig the Annual Papal Awards in hopes of pecoming the new Pope. Along with his wicked wives and his illegitimate son, Bastardo, he will wreack havoc on the Roman Catholic Church!

In case you're wondering where I am in this mess, I was one of the wives. Yes. I dressed in drag. Once. It was not a pretty sight. I've seen more attractive people at the burn ward. Do your best to erase the image from your mind. You'll thank me later.

Anyway, Popeman and Cardinal arrive on the scene to thward Dr. Polygamy's plans only to be confronted by his harem. Cue your standard cliched Batman-inspired climax/throwdown, replete with fisticuffs and theatrics. Only the "Bams!" and "Biffs!" have been replaced with more... pious exclamations. A punch is thrown and "Bible!" flashes across the screen. A wife grabs Cardinal in a rear waistlock, and the Altar Boy Wonder nails an incoming sinner with a double kick to the midsection to the tune of "Psalm!" You get the idea.

Long story short, the pair are overcome by the wives and taken prisoner, left to the devices of the Devilishly Darwinian Evil-Lution. Basically an excuse to put a guy in a monkey suit. Naturally, the good guys escape, and arrive at the Papal Awards just in time to stop Dr. Polygamy (posing as Antonio Sabado, Jr.) from accepting the Papacy from this year's presenters (Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn). Everyone good lives, everyone bad dies or goes to jial. Life is sweet, cue the dance routine.

For participating in this sketch, the Pope is making me pay from beyond the grave. See, I work for a company that specializes in collectibles. Model cars, elegantly bound books, commemorative sports novelties, etc. My dividsion deals with the philatelic side of things.

Translation: I work with stamps and coins. Yep. I bust my ass and drive over an hour to work every day so some wishy-washy no-life shmuck can have a collection of decorative panels featuring coins minted from FDR's presidency and commemorative stamps in honor of the signing of the Federal Deposit Insurance Law and the like (I'm not making this up), all packaged in a "handsome" limited edition deluxe collector's album with vinyl sleeves to keep the coins and stamps (which are already encapsulated in acetates) in mint condition.

People wonder why I drink a quart of turpentine when I get home from work every night.

Well here's the thing... my division underwent a massive changei n operation when Princess Diana died several years back. Now we make a good portion of our bread through memorial programs for beloved public figures in lieu of their deaths.

So you can imagine that when J.P. II took a trip to the O.R., our creative department was already developing art for an upcoming program in honor of his great life. When he bought the farm on Saturday, I knew that Monday (and the week to follow) was going to be hell in a hand basket.

I come to work before my assistant manager arrives (as always) and find out that I have to order 7 million unites of marketing materials (letters, brochures, etc.). That 7 million quickly jumps to 7.5 mil. As I write this, we're at 10 mil, and that's just what's been estimated in 2 days. I'm sure that as the masses that flock to His Eminence's corpse increase, so will my workload.

The irony of it all. The Pope, perhaps the holiest man known to the world, is now putting me through hell. All because of that Goddamn skit.

I just cringe to think at what he'll do to the cat in the monkey suit.

Goodnight and have a blessed tomorrow.