You had one effing job.

I’m getting high and changing my Steam name to Michael Cutter. Thanks for canceling my favorite show for no good fucking reason, NBC.

Law & Order: 1990-2010

“You had one effing job.”

I created this blog to point out the shortcomings of man. Shortcomings that can be easily countered with initiative and common sense. For the past few entries, I have focused more on myself and getting my own life together. So, in thanks for you guys pretending to care about what I do with my life, I’m going to give you a special three-part series called: The Stupid Chronicles. This will center on the past two days where I encountered so much stupid that my brain was hemorrhaging IQ.

Part I: Parents

“This ordinance prevents restaurants from preying on children’s love of toys to peddle high-calorie, high-fat, high-sodium kids meals.”

“It is unfair to parents and children to use toys to get them hooked on eating high-calorie, high-fat foods early in life.”

“With this kind of ordinance it is really difficult to be first. It is easy to say that we as parents should make the decision but kids can be so persuasive.”

See those three statements of retarded up there? They’re from an article stating that a small county in California voted to ban restaurants “from using toys to lure children to high-calorie, salt-laden food.” Unless all the restaurants came up with another solution for all the kids getting fat all up in Santa Clara within 90 days, there would be one less thing for the kids to “accidentally” swallow.

Proponents of the ban feel that if there are no toys in the Happy Meals, the kids won’t want the Happy Meals, therefore they won’t eat the Happy Meals, and poof! They become active, healthy children. Opponents feel that by this logic, other components of a sedentary lifestyle, like video games and television, should be banned as well.

To me, it seems like a knee-jerk reaction to a veritable concoction of helplessness, fear, and lack of personal accountability.

Let’s take this quote by quote, shall we?

“This ordinance prevents restaurants from preying on children’s love of toys to peddle high-calorie, high-fat, high-sodium kids meals.”

The restaurants are not preying on the children. Have you been in a McDonald’s before? It doesn’t seem like a kid’s wonderland. It seems more like a house of broken dreams that also happens to have a really fucking delicious Angus burger. If there is a target, it’s the parents who are either too lazy or too busy to cook for their children. There is nothing wrong with getting a quick dinner once in a while when there’s nothing in the house to eat or when a particular day is hectic. But it becomes a problem when you’re feeding your kids this stuff three times a week and you’re wondering why they can’t fit in their new gym uniforms.

“It is unfair to parents and children to use toys to get them hooked on eating high-calorie, high-fat foods early in life.”

No one is denying that toys are pretty and shiny to kids. It was a simpler time then. Give us anything colorful, and we will love you for two seconds until we get bored with it. But to accuse a company of using toys to make kids eat fatty foods is like saying bullets kill people and not the people firing the gun. You’re blaming an inanimate object for having such a hold on the kid that the word “no” is completely wiped from the English language.

Want proof? This was a conversation my friend overheard in Philadelphia, all 100% true and 100% disgusting:

Woman (on her cell, screaming kid in tow): “He wanted a donut, I got him a donut. He wanted McDonald’s, I got him McDonald’s. Now he wants ice cream and you didn’t give me enough money!”

My friend’s response?  “The money is not the problem here.”

Which brings me to my final dissection.

“With this kind of ordinance it is really difficult to be first. It is easy to say that we as parents should make the decision but kids can be so persuasive.”

I’ve dealt with a lot of dumb in my day, but this is probably the first time I was unable to tell whether she had a really small brain or really big balls. I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I am an experienced parent, but I was a kid at one point. My mother knew how to say no. In fact, she fucking relished the word. And even though I had my share of junk food, she made sure that I was active in some way so I wasn’t having any health issues.

Obesity is a big problem in this country. It’s a tragic epidemic that needs to be controlled as soon as possible. However, it’s one thing to inspire people to eat better and live healthy lives. It’s another thing to think that taking away shiny things will turn the kids into little Paris Hiltons. Especially when there are already other options present that make choosing healthier alternatives that much simpler, even for the dumbest people. Even McDonald’s has a page showing how healthy some of their choices are compared to other foods.

I don’t care if your kid is screaming to high heaven that he wants the new Telebubbies toy that came out (do Teletubbies still exist?); I have never heard of a kid crying himself to death. Parents these days spend most of their time spoiling their kids and giving them everything they want and wonder why twenty years later, their “special boy” is stinking up the basement of their house and demanding why he hasn’t had his Sailor Moon costume dry cleaned yet.

So is there a solution? Yes. Kids have these big squishy minds that can easily be melded to choose yogurt and fruit instead of hamburgers and ice cream. And if the parents don’t have the patience, humility, and discipline to teach their children this, then they shouldn’t be parents in the first place.

Now to get an Angus burger. Those things are delicious.

Fuck the Nationals.

Anyway, sorry for the late post. Seeing as I have completed a major resolution (the job thingy), I haven’t had time to post anything worthwhile. But don’t worry, kids! It’s April, which means spring is here, which means the allergy onslaught has disallowed me movement save for these piano-playin’ fingers. Grab some toilet paper, kids. It’s info dump time.

First things first. I have a new job. I work as a day hostess for a comedy club and let me tell you, this job…is the shit (Yes, those ellipses were needed. Shut up.). The place is nice, I was able to ease right in, and the job actually keeps me busy. I work great hours and I’m actually able to pay my own freaking bills for once.  But the most important thing is the managers and the owner of the club aren’t a bunch of bitter assholes who spend most of their time forgetting where their employees are at a given time. Instead, they are probably some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. Not to mention incredibly kind.

Second, I have finally, FINALLY, escaped the confines of New Jersey. During Easter weekend, John and I moved to a nice place in Brooklyn along with our good friend and Grandmaster of the Robot Dinosaurs that Shoot Laser Beams from Their Mouths, Widget. Normally, this would not be such a meaningful event to me, since I normally don’t feel any different when I move. But I did feel different this time. After thinking way too hard yesterday (which may also explain the current headache), I realized that I felt like an outsider while living in Kearny. I was always a city girl, and while the quietness of suburbia was appealing at first, it quickly made me feel like an outsider. New York City was the party, and I was the girl who wasn’t invited. Even now, almost a week into my Brooklyn adventure, I’m more lively and active. I can breathe easier and I can call this place mine. It even has a name, thanks to Marissa: The Command Center.

Fuck allergies.

What else? Oh! I also joined a gym with my good friend, Ev. She’s been very patient with me, since between the move, the job, and my attempts at writing have interfered greatly, maintaining a steady workout routine has been impossible.  Nevertheless, the gym is cheap, has everything I need, and OMG THERE’S NICE PEOPLE THERE.

Wait a minute.

There’s nice people in this world? When did this happen?

I guess, as much as I am afraid to say it, life is finally looking up. And I’ll be updating more often now; I know you all missed me.

And now for something quite the contrary…

My good friend, Paws, whom you have gotten to know quite well, has a new comic up called Deviant University. I gave her a tagline, and she didn’t use it, and I have been badgering her to put me in her comic, and she still hasn’t done it. So I think it’s only fair that I make you guys check her shit out because she’s so Godforsaken talented. And she needs to put me in her comic. And stop watching fake sports.

And my sister from another mister, Julie, is doing something rather extraordinary. Her mother, Susie, probably one of the most generous and loving people I have ever met, who took me in when my own mother was being a shit, is a breast cancer survivor. My great-grandmother is also a breast cancer survivor, so already I have two brave warriors who beat the everloving crap out of this terrible disease. It’s only fair that I recognize this fairly, since if it wasn’t for Susie, I wouldn’t be alive right now. Julie and Susie will be participating in the Komen Illadelph Race for the Cure on Mother’s Day, May 9th 2009. It would mean very much to them, as well as myself if you would make a donation to this cause. No donation is too small. Fortunately,I was able to donate a couple of weeks back, and I’m probably going to do it again, because, well…

This is usually the part where I tear up.

You can donate here.

That’s all. I’m back, I’m loud, and I’m even crazier than ever. One Effing Job: The Brooklyn Saga has begun. Don’t you wanna come and waste your life with me?

I thought so.

Cheers,
Briggs

Happy New Year, everyone!

It’s the time to make resolutions that absolutely no one will keep. Forgive my bluntness, but it’s true. I’ve been making resolutions for the longest time and all that happens is that at the end of the year, I make the same damn ones again, thinking that I have all the time in the world.

Well, I don’t. Life is too short and time’s a-wasting. I have five resolutions for this year and I’m going to need a lot of perseverance (and booze) to complete them all.

1. Get a job.

I don’t want to hear anyone’s shit right now about this. The title of the blog is “You Had One Effing Job.” Why that isn’t applying to me right now is ridiculous. I have been searching extensively for months now and the job market has been anything but kind to me. I have tried everything that people have advised me to do and I’ve gotten no results.

This would not be such an issue if I wasn’t looking for an apartment right now and need to be in one come the spring. Needless to say, we would be cutting it extremely close if I don’t start bringing home a decent wage. My aunt and father put it in really good perspective: times are tough right now. The economy destroyed everything and everyone. But it doesn’t make things easier. If someone, ANYONE knows of any receptionist/childcare jobs, please get in touch with me.

2. Finish my pilot.

Now, I know at times I talk a lot of shit, but I wasn’t kidding when I said I finished the outline to my pilot. The problem is the stresses of unemployment and eventual competition have given me a crippling case of writer’s block. Combined with the aftereffects of my concussion, I have done little more than scribble random scenes in my notebook. And it seems that despite my peers’ assurances that I have an original idea and that it works, I find myself cancelling my show before it even gets produced.

That ends this year. My theory is that if I write the same way I did in high school, without fear of rejection or competition, then I would probably finish this without regrets. Then even if it doesn’t get produced or hell, never see the light of day, I can say that I wrote it. Period.

And if it does get produced, hopefully by then I will already have started…

3. Taking acting classes.

This will only happen if number one gets accomplished. They are expensive. I became more determined to do so after I told a close friend that I wanted to star in the pilot and she looked at me, bemused, and said, “You don’t know how to act.”

Al though I know that comment was in jest (I think…), that is only half true. I have acted before and am well aware of the amount of dedication and will needed to immerse oneself into a character. I just need to learn more. And New York is the best place to do so. Even if I don’t become a superstar, at least I can do something that I know I would love to do.

4. Go to a gym.

If there was one thing working at a boxing club has taught me, it is that there is nothing better than an intense workout. This is another thing that can only be achieved if number one is accomplished. I would go back to boxing, definitely. I still have my Chun-Li legs (as pointed out to me by my friend Mickey via massage), but the rest of me could use more work.

Plus I promised a friend I would join hers.

5. Stay in touch with relatives.

When I left my mother’s house for the final time, I swore that I would never allow my relatives or my children to ever deal with that amount of abuse. And to remember this, I will be getting a tattoo on my arm of the date I left, as a constant reminder that if you need change, you have to be the one to make that happen.

Having said that, one of the things I have been horrible at as a result of my upbringing is keeping in touch with relatives. It’s extremely hard to talk with someone casually because I am not used to talking to people as such. Especially since my mother did such a good job isolating my sister, brother, and I from our extended family. And while I have gotten better, I know that there is still much left to do in terms of forgiving myself for allowing the damage to be done.

So for all my relatives out there, don’t give up on me. I think about all of you every day and even though I hold much disdain for Facebook as of late (seriously, WTF?), it has done the one thing I’ve never thought possible: reuniting me with my family.

So there you have it. My five resolutions for the New Year. And this is Briggs reminding all of you:

You have one effing job. And that’s to be awesome.

–Briggs

Another year gone. And it depresses me.

Not because it is another sign that I am getting older, but because I don’t seem to be getting any wiser. I started off this year with a head injury that was more crippling than I originally perceived. It not only ended my desire to play rugby, but it interfered with other things in my life that I gave more of a damn about. My superior typing ability was reduced to misspelled words and sentences that made no sense. When I talk, random, nonsensical statements spew from my face hole. My memory, already shaky from a traumatic past, is worse than ever. And the worst part is, because of my misguided (?) belief that there is little to be done about a concussion, I am left with sporadic migraines, crippling depression, and wasted time.

So having turned into a modern-day zombie, here’s my recap of the year:

Winter

During the beginning of the year, I was at a part-time job that was becoming increasingly disenchanting. Being that it was a boxing club, I thought it would be exciting. And it was. I was able to learn about boxing and meet some amazing people. But the schedule and the work environment was wearing on me. Also, my father was going to the hospital repeatedly, which made things a lot more complicated. But I stayed, because I enjoyed the members and the trainers, who provided an endless source of entertainment.

On the plus side, Valentine’s Day was a treat. My partner-in-crime took me to a nice restaurant and while completely buzzed on wine, we went to see Avenue Q. A hysterical piece of work, and officially the first Broadway show I was able to witness. Also, I was re-introduced to PC games, which I never thought would happen. Thanks to Left 4 Dead, I developed a new obsession—and new friends.

Spring/Summer

Spring was a blur. My only recollection was PIC’s and my anniversary. And the fact that warm weather was coming. Jack Frost can go jump into a wood chipper. Still hated my job.

Summer was better. A friend had graduated from college, and since she lived near the beach, I was definitely feeling the summer love. But booze prevented me from remembering much. A word of advice: Two SoCo shots within ten seconds are neither needed nor wise.

Plus there was LA. Los. Freaking. Angeles. Summer 24/7. My first concern was the plane ride. Let me be clear—Briggs does not do air travel. Briggs hates flying. Briggs would rather get hit by a car than crash in a ball of flames from 30-something-thousand feet in the air. However, the kryptonite to Briggs’ fear of flying is Xanax. Good old alprazolam. And Richard Branson. And fruit and nut platters. But I digress.

Spending eight days in LA made me realize that my goal of being a successful writer was within reach. But instead of focusing on things that I needed for the now, I had to focus on things that I needed to do in order to secure my future. To start, I knew that I could not stay at my job. It would have gone nowhere and it disallowed me any concentration that could have been used for better things.

It was a decision made in the Briggs style. For those unaware of the Briggs style, it’s when a simple act of negligence or misunderstanding, usually on my part, turns what is normally a minor situation into a severe one. Fasten your seatbelts.

On my way to work, I had left my wallet at home. In a state of panic, I called in to say I wouldn’t make it in time. A series of miscommunications and retarded text messages led to the boss contacting me. While in a cab, on my way to work, my boss texted me to say to not bother coming in. I was furious. That would mean that I had just wasted twelve dollars in cab fare. My temper is fierce.

I texted my boss that I quit. I had enough. I’m not going to get into what was exactly said, but I have to mention one thing. Only because it fits within the spirit of what this whole blog is about.

Here’s a little background information so you can understand what the problem is here. There are only three part-time receptionists in that gym. Two other women and me. The quit texts happened two days after I returned from a week in LA. That means that I was gone from work for exactly one week. The job pays weekly. Got it? Okay.

Now, when I tell my boss that I quit, this is the text I receive:

Okay. Go and see the bookkeeper so you can get your check for last week.

/facepalm.

If you’re that disinterested in me to the point where you didn’t remember that I was gone for a whole fucking week, then we have nothing more to talk about.

Fall

Fall is exactly what it was. It was a freefall into unemployment and boredom. It’s amazing how cabin fever can take many forms and drive you batshit insane. Not to mention that being a naturally independent person, depending on others for help does not work for me at all. A lot of games were played, a lot of writing was done, a lot of failed interviews were had, and a lot of facepalms were made.

But there was a diamond in that rough. My boyfriend, who knew damn well that I was very perceptive in the arts of human behavior, was able to plan, develop, and execute my surprise birthday party that brought people from three states in for one glorious night. It reminded me that even when I believed that I was a colossal fuck-up, these people didn’t think so. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much love in my life. And this was following another party that my mother-in-law threw for me that coincided with the Phillies making it to the World Series for the second year in a row.

My heart is still heavy from them.

Oh, and did I mention this was the first time I had Thanksgiving with my biological father?

Winter

And so the cycle begins again. In almost two weeks, the first decade of the new millennium will be over. I don’t feel anything overwhelming or life-changing, because my entire life is ever-shifting, ever-changing, and ever-annoying. The only things keeping me from considering the alternative are the support from my friends and family and my own belief that things can only get better. My head is still killing me and there are a lot of memories that I will probably will never get back, but at the end of the day, I’m still here and I’ll still be screaming my head off for years to come.

And there’s always Linus.

Teehee.

Happy New Year.

–Briggs

(10:39:50 AM)Paws: so… uh…. blog post?
(10:40:29 AM) Briggsycakes: I don’t update every second like you.
(10:40:33 AM) Briggsycakes: Topics have to come to me.
(10:45:00 AM) Paws: um. how abouuut
(10:45:45 AM) Paws: the state of the great popcicle feather boa conflict of ‘14
(10:45:58 AM) Briggsycakes: Oh Jesus Christ.
(10:46:26 AM) Paws:
(10:46:41 AM)Paws: or my conquest for total world domination
(10:48:24 AM) Briggsycakes: I’m going to beat you to it.
(10:48:37 AM) Paws: i dont think so
(10:48:43 AM) Paws: i already have plans drawn up
(10:49:34 AM) Paws: or uncle linus
(10:49:54 AM) Paws: and his conquest to get in the pants of his ADA
(10:50:07 AM) Paws: and how it will fail when he meets and discovers you
(10:50:30 AM) Paws: but how he will then succeed in his conquest to get into YOUR pants
(10:50:35 AM) Paws: i think thats a good topic
(10:50:42 AM) Paws: i came up with that one
(10:50:46 AM) Paws: its pretty epic
(10:50:58 AM) Paws: if you want to make it more epic you can throw some U2 in there
(10:51:00 AM) Paws: and a dinosaur
(10:51:13 AM) Paws: that would be like summer blockbuster epic
(10:51:31 AM) Paws: maybe a motorcyle
(10:51:39 AM) Paws: and a stripper with a feather boa.
(10:51:46 AM) Paws: maybe chelios
(10:52:00 AM) Paws: doing the stripper with the feather boa
(10:52:14 AM) Paws: and a robot
(10:52:17 AM) Paws: gotta have a robot
(10:52:20 AM) Paws: a big ont
(10:52:25 AM) Paws: like megatron
(10:52:34 AM) Paws: only instead of an AI he’s a robot
(10:52:38 AM) Paws: MY robot.
(10:52:41 AM) Paws: and my best friend
(10:52:46 AM) Paws: awwww emotional twist!
(10:52:56 AM) Paws: do we love the robot or do we hate the robot?
(10:53:00 AM) Paws: we are conflicted!
(10:53:10 AM) Paws: and some explosions
(10:53:29 AM) Paws: topped with fireworks when uncle linus completes his quest
(10:53:35 AM) Paws: and then roll credits
(10:53:38 AM) Paws: thank you
(10:54:15 AM) Briggsycakes: I think I have a blog post.
(10:54:40 AM) Paws: your internal conflict on whether or not you should have me committed?
(10:55:45 AM) Briggsycakes: Pretty much.
(10:55:51 AM) Briggsycakes: You’ll see.
(10:56:20 AM) Paws: lol

Dear Little Briggs,

I know the darkness that surrounds you. I know that while you are reading this, you are sitting there, your face covered in your pillow, your ears filled with the loud sounds of a mixed CD that you crafted so meticulously. Your big brown eyes are shut and instead of the crimson mass that shows, a wonderful world blooms, where your celebrity crush of the year is whisking you away to somewhere, anywhere.

But there.

You think you’re the ugliest thing, that there is something wrong with you. You can’t tell anymore whether your mother is emotionally or physically abusive, because both feel the same—every word tears a new whole into your heart and every hit pierces your soul. Your sister doesn’t respect you because even though you were the first to be born, you were also the first to fall. Your brother, however young he is, knows nothing of your pain—and shouldn’t—yet you still feel responsible for each tear that comes down his chubby little face. And your father wasn’t there, replaced with a talented, yet equally abusive stepparent, absent because of truths that I guarantee you may never find.

There is darkness. I am your light.

I promise you, Little Briggs. People do love you. When you go to school, and you try to be happy, when you try to obtain something you want instead of things you need, all you can think of are the stares and the jabs, and the fights and the anger that people have toward you. Because you chose to speak the truth. Because even though you know you have hate surrounding you, you don’t absorb it. Instead of trying to fix yourself, you try to help others. And when you think you’ve done your job, and you know that you will get no reward, you go back to your dreams, knowing they are the only ones that love you back.

I can tell you now, Little Briggs, you are dead wrong.

This weekend, I was subjected to more love than anyone ever dreamed of. In one simple gathering, every hole in my heart was sealed with joy. Let me make this clear, little one. Facebook is no substitute for human flesh. The amount of faceless birthday wishes written on my wall was more than twice the amount of live bodies on that fateful night, and yet I was fulfilled. I laughed, I cried, I felt so high. And the only regret I have right now is not taking advantage of this fact so long ago, and using it as my strength to make myself a better writer, a better friend, and a better person. I am loved.

My only request is this. Don’t give up. Don’t reach for that Tylenol. Don’t touch those razors. And don’t you dare wrap Death’s chocker around your precious little neck. Your temporary problem that is your current situation, those demons that are brewing inside you and threaten you eat you alive is exactly that. Temporary.

Want proof? Guess who’s writing this?

From the future,
Briggs

At approximately 12:18 pm on October 27^th, 2009, I finally finished the outline for my TV pilot that has inhabited my dreams for the past year. To celebrate, I had my dear friend Paws doodle the ending of the episode in order to visualize the hotness that was to be. So what happens when you have non-linear artist improvise a doodle of your prized work? Well…

Not an hour later, I get this e-mail from Steam:

	Booty,You play way more than me, so enjoy. This is part of your birthday gift. Game On, John

He bought me Left 4 Dead 2. Best. Boyfriend. Ever.

BTW, Muse has been named World’s Best Band. Fuck, I could have known that. Yet, I am still displeased that they are furthering their involvement in The Twilight Saga. I’d like to think that it was just for money and exposure, but Dom shat all over that theory. Oh wellz.

EDIT: Oh, and the New York Post can kiss my Trinirican ass. Seriously, you guys are fucking idiots. The amount of juvenile insults that populate the nearly incoherent article I’ve just read are just further proof that you are shitting your pants right now. If the great Joe Torre even says that the Phillies remind him of his winning Yankees, you’re proper fucked.

Let me reiterate: Your own former manager just said that the Phillies have what it takes to beat you. Incidentally, do you remember the last time you were in a championship game? Because I do–when for thirty years he was destroying everything that walked into the Bronx.

Bring your worst. We’ll bring our best.

–Briggs

Booty,You play way more than me, so enjoy. This is part of your birthday gift.
	Game On, John

Other than being my new superhero name, the black taco is the only drug that is not only more legal, but more powerful than steroids. And that is why you fail, Manny. You poop head.

Source here.

P.S.: All this excitement appears to have made Jimmy Rollins wet his undies.

Go Phillies!

–Briggs

Dear Philadelphia Cream Cheese,

I must admit. I am a horrible waster. My depleted appetite for all things “nutritious” and “satisfying” has made me leave otherwise delectable delights linger in the fridge until they grow mold zits and other forms of life that I’m almost positive have yet to be classified. I’m going to name the organisms currently on my seven-month-old jalapeños Briggawhats, just for the sake of respect and boredom.

However, you, my creamy friend, are an enigma. I remember the very day when I first put my hands on you, loving you as I carted you around the beige aisles of Shop Rite, daydreaming about slathering you on a freshly baked sourdough roll and devouring you without any regard for my carb count, because that is for sissies.

That was nearly five months ago. I was afraid you were lost from me.

My partner-in-crime was cleaning out the fridge. I was no longer eating as much. My gym activities had ceased. I was unemployed. I was desperately, desperately looking for some sort of release from my current humdrum existence.

And that came in the form of you.

But, alas, dear cheesy wonder, I was still apprehensive. For your loving chives and your succulent onions that folded so eloquently in your snowy base could have easily been mistaken for mold or my new Briggawhats. But I took that risk, and it paid off heavenly. And now I dedicate this post to you, you alone, because you stuck with me. You never aged or became bitter. You are my true inspiration, Philadelphia Cream Cheese. And I thank you.

With gratitude (and the noms),

Briggs