January 20, 2004
IN THE TEENS IN MUSIC CITY
Well, ha ha, I wish, but it was 15 degrees Fahrfugnugen when I woke up in Nashville this morning, so technically I'm correct. Why did I go there? Damned if I know, but somebody signed me up to go give a presentation to the midwest operations managers, so I unfolded my patented line of bullshit about how ball-kicking we'll do in 2004, how we'll slay the fucking competition like infected sentinel chickens, how we're going to get a bonus for a change this year, godamit! AKA my Pollyanna speech.
They bought it, even though I'm a sales puke, because I used to be one of them in a prior incarnation. So they trust me, and don't realize how badly the home office has warped me. I would have loved to have stayed and reminesced, but I bolted at lunch, and grabbed a standby flight home. Too cold for a working trip. I'm a puss.
What? Oh, that? Gone. Done. A victim of my backwoods surgery. In fact, I'm a little disappointed in my erstwhile adversary for its lack of staying power, although it hurt me a hell of a lot more than I hurt it.
And so. I figured I wouldn't feel so bad about not blogging if I chased you all off, but now I am firmly convinced there is absolutely nothing I can write about that will run off my more intrepid readers. Huzzah! So there's no point in even bringing up my uncle's rectal cluster warts. Although I may share that story in the future in my new premium subscription section.