Violent Acres

Kyle was a jackass.

Four months after hiring him for a pretty prestigious paid internship and that was the nicest quality I could ascribe to him, too. Kyle spent his work week fooling around, hitting on the female interns, and surfing the Internet. Assigning Kyle tasks was an exercise in futility. He was too busy playing obnoxious practical jokes on people to do even some minor filing. Kyle was always at least 20 minutes late for his shift; you could set your watch by him. And at least 3 times he had left for his lunch break and never returned. Even more ludicrous than all of this, Kyle nearly always complained because he wasn’t trusted enough to do anything ‘fun’ or ‘important’ or ‘challenging.’

From my point of view, Kyle should have been thanking God he still had his job. Furthermore, if I couldn’t trust him to close the window, how the hell was I supposed to trust him with something ‘challenging?’

Unfortunately, Kyle’s near constant bellyaching drowned out the voice of my better judgment one day. Hoping to motivate Kyle with a little bit of responsibility, I decided to put him in charge for one hour while I met an important client for lunch. Since almost everyone was out of the office for the day, his only real duties would have been answering the phones, taking messages, and avoiding setting the place on fire.

Kyle seemed pretty thrilled by the fact I trusted him to do more than put stickers on files under direct supervision of someone else, so I had high hopes that my little experiment would inspire Kyle to do a better job. In the very least, I told myself, it’s not like much could go wrong.

To make a long story short, I came back exactly one hour later to find Kyle and 6 of his college buddies in the midst of a food fight. Not only that, but every light on the phone was lit up. He hadn’t managed to take a single call.

Furious, I sent Kyle’s buddies home and called him into my office.

“You’ve been complaining for months that no one trusts you with responsibility. I put you in charge and this is how you repay me? By drenching the copy machine in Dr. Pepper?”

“Oh come on! I doubt it’s even broken! It just needs to air out!”

“Kyle,” I asked, calmly, “Are you totally useless?”

“What are you talking about? I bust my ass around here!”

“You’ve failed at every task I’ve ever given you. That’s not how I define ‘hard worker.’ That’s how I define ‘incompetence.’ And let’s be real here! I could train a monkey to do your job!”

“Are you calling me a monkey?”

I sighed and put my head in my hands. “Tell you what. Take the rest of the day off.”

“Paid?”

“Unpaid.”

“But that’s not fair!”

I couldn’t believe the gall of this guy, but I was tired of arguing with him so I merely said, “Go.”

I spent the rest of the day dealing with angry clients who felt ignored, cleaning bits of taco salad off of the blinds, and muttering to myself that I would have never entered my chosen field if I had known I would become a glorified babysitter. Just before I was about to leave for the day, the phone rang one more time. I picked it up.

It was Kyle’s Mother.

Before we go any further, I guess I should make note of the fact that Kyle came from a very wealthy family. In fact, his Grandmother, who was extremely well known in the community, had put a good word in for him which is how he got the internship in the first place. Kyle’s Mother was a typical trophy wife who had neither worked nor heard the word ‘no’ in her entire life. She also spoiled her children rotten. For his 20th birthday, she gave Kyle a new car worth more than a lot of people’s homes. It was necessary to for her to do this, Kyle had told me, since he had already wrecked the cars he had gotten for his 16th and 18th birthdays.

Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to our conversation.

“My son just got home,” she snapped as soon as I introduced myself, “and he just told me something very disturbing!”

“Oh?” I inquired.

“He told me you called him incompetent!”

“Ma’am,” I replied delicately, “He is incompetent.”

“How dare you say that! How dare you! You hurt his feelings!”

“Unfortunately Ma’am, I am in the business of running this company. I am not in the business of catering to your son’s feelings.”

“He also said you called him a monkey! A monkey! That’s slander! I could sue you! Any psychiatrist would agree that what you said caused lifelong damage to his self esteem! You can’t put a price on that!”

I was enraged. I was livid. Walking in the door and seeing a bean burrito stomped into the office carpet was small beans compared to the utter fury I felt when this woman threatened to sue me.

“If you feel like I have broken the law, feel free to take your case to a lawyer. But in the meantime, I think there has been some misunderstanding here. Harassing me with calls about your son’s work performance leads me to believe that he is still a child as opposed to a grown man. Because [Company] does not employ children, I’m afraid I’m going to have to fire him. Let him know he can pick up his final paycheck on Friday.”

“You’re firing him?” she asked incredulously.

I hung up on her. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again. I left my office for the day without picking up.

I didn’t hear from Kyle or his Mother for over a week. I assumed this was because they were busy being laughed out of their lawyer’s office after explaining their ‘slander’ case. However, Kyle eventually did knock on the door of my office sans Mom.

“I just wanted to apologize for the substandard job I did here. I also wanted to tell you I’m sorry my Mother called and yelled at you. If you give me another chance, I swear this will never happen again.”

I didn’t even look up from my folder. “I’ve already given you plenty of chances Kyle. I’m done.”

“I know and I’m sorry. But at least let me work off the cost of a new copy machine. At least let me do that.”

Now that gave me a pause considering Kyle had the means to get the company a new top of the line copy machine without lifting a finger. I found myself relenting.

“I’ll let you work off the copy machine. But the keyword here is: work. No fooling around. Do your job.”

“Thank you! Thank you, I promise I won’t let you down!”

Kyle busted his ass working off the cost of the copy machine. Impressed, I decided to let him keep his job. Not losing an ounce of momentum, Kyle continued to do stellar work and eventually started moving up the corporate ladder. Three years later, when I had chosen early retirement he took over for me.

I guess confronting his own failures and learning from them was what was finally needed to turn him into a man.

This is why it is so troubling to hear that Grand Rapids Public Schools seems to want students to remain children perpetually. It’s bad enough when people like Kyle’s Mother turn their mini terrors loose on the world. It’s totally unconscionable when the school systems decide to help create them.

In case you didn’t read that article, the Grand Rapids School system is beginning a new program where they will avoid giving students an ‘F’ when they fail a class. Instead, they’ll get an ‘H’ and the opportunity to take the class over again. And again. And again.

Apparently, the Superintendent doesn’t want to give 14-16 year old students any ‘life failures.’ I guess it’s far better for students to experience their first failure like Kyle did: In their adult years, at the workplace, where a less kind boss would fire them and put them out on the street.

Someone please tell these people that failure is not a bad thing! It’s a learning experience. How are children supposed to learn to buckle down, work hard, and improve themselves if they’re never given the chance to fail? Sometimes it isn’t until we experience the fruits of our irresponsibility that we learn to pull our shit together.

Furthermore, since when is it the teacher’s job to protect our child’s feelings? Instilling a strong sense of self is something a parent should do. Teachers shouldn’t be worrying about the self esteems of their students. They should be making sure the little fuckers can read.

The problem is parents don’t want to be parents. They want little miniature versions of themselves they can hold and cuddle and then send off somewhere else to be raised.

I was talking to a friend a couple of weeks ago about her school age daughter who managed to pull bad grades in a couple of subjects at school. When questioned about her poor academic performance, her daughter told her the reason she wasn’t working as hard is because she vaguely felt like her new teacher wasn’t as nice as the teacher she had last year.

“Do you think I should talk to him about it during our conference?” she fretted.

“Why would you?”

“Well, what if he doesn’t like her?”

“So what if he doesn’t like her? It’s not his job to like her! It’s his job to teach her!”

“I’m just saying, perhaps she would be doing better in school if he made more of an effort to be nice.”

I groaned and put my head in my hands. “Listen, if you think he’s being abusive, definitely step in. But she’s going to have to cope with authority figures who aren’t sweet as pie to her when she’s an adult, isn’t she? So why not let her practice dealing with differing personalities now instead of demanding that everyone treat her exactly the same way only for her to end up shocked and traumatized when she finds out the rest of the world smells her shit and knows it stinks later?”

“But I know she can do so much better!”

“Then quit giving her excuses and ride her ass until she does!”

My friend took my advice and her daughter ended up significantly improving her grade point average. As far as we both can tell, her oh so important self esteem wasn’t damaged in the process. Bonus: she can read.

Parents, do your fucking jobs! You worry about self esteem and how your children cope with failure. Let teachers worry about science and fucking arithmetic.

In this post, originally published November 27th, 2006, V laments crappy food and non-alcoholic festivities, but still finds time to go Unicorn hunting. Enjoy.

Black Thanksgiving

By: V

Last night, my Husband and I attended a charity dinner. I’m not exactly sure what disease or malady this dinner was fighting to cure, but I assumed it some sort of cancer. However, the real reason my Husband and I were attending was merely in order to meet our friend Brian’s new girlfriend. Apparently, she was hosting the event.

The story on the girlfriend was she had been whining to meet us for quite awhile. Brian was reluctant to make introductions because he wasn’t sure how serious he was about her and their relationship. Finally, the constant pouting and bickering won out and my Husband and I were herded like cattle to the event to meet Miss Prima Dona herself.

Obviously, I had reservations.

First of all, the girlfriend’s name is Tiffany. Tiffany. If ever there was a name that screamed spoiled self entitlement it is Tiffany. Hell, it’s impossible to even say the name without turning your nose up and pursing your lips.

Secondly, Miss Tiffany, after a mere 4 weeks of dating, had already tried to convince Brian to get rid of his cat. There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t have been dumped 3 seconds after having the balls to ask me to give up any of my pets. And fuck allergies, they’re no excuse. The recipe for true love includes Zyrtec.

Fortunately, Brian retained possession of his beloved feline, but my subtle distaste for Tiffany remained.

After entering the building, my Husband and I quickly scanned the crowd looking for Brian. When we finally found him, he was suspiciously sans girlfriend.

“Where is Tiffany?” I asked.

“She’s over there,” Brian said as he pointed to a perky brunette animatedly talking to an awkward red headed guy, “Talking to an old friend. I’ll get her.”

“Don’t mention the cat,” warned my Husband.

Brian returned a few moments later with both the brunette and the awkward guy. Introductions were made and the guys quickly started talking sports. Politely, I turned towards Tiffany and tried to make conversation.

“So…do you live around here?”

“Oh yeah,” she answered, “Been here about a year.”

“Do you enjoy the area?”

Granted, this wasn’t the most stimulating conversation we could have been having. My only excuse was that I had only known her for about 30 seconds. Still, that didn’t stop this bitch from pulling her cell phone out of her pocket and, mid conversation with me, dialing a phone number and screaming profanities onto some poor sap’s answering machine.

Strike three and I was officially done with Tiffany. I turned towards the guys while Tiffany made another call. A few seconds later, Tiffany wandered off, leaving us with her weirdo friend.

The four of us decided to grab some seats. My Husband and Brian sat on one side of the table. I sat across from my Husband and next to Tiffany’s friend who introduced himself as ‘Bomber.’

I am not making that up. This guy adamantly insisted we all refer to him as ‘Bomber.‘

Did I mention that Bomber was strange? Because Hoooo boy, was Bomber strange! He stuttered and twitched and had absolutely zero social skills. For example, in the middle of a very lively conversation about politics, he interrupted to clumsily blurt, “I like karate!”

Trying my best to be polite to Bomber, I turned toward him in an attempt to make conversation.

“That sounds interesting,” I replied, “Do you take lessons?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been involved with the sport?”

“Awhile.”

Uh…throw me a bone here? I don’t know jack shit about karate, but I do know that if you interrupt a prior topic to insert the subject into the conversation, etiquette suggests you damn well be prepared to hold up your end of said conversation…and that includes speaking in complete sentences as opposed to stilted one word phrases.

Obviously, my Husband and Brian gave up on Bomber fairly quickly. They have very little patience for people who are painfully socially inept and began ignoring him completely. I, on the other hand, felt sorry for the guy and kept struggling to talk to him.

“So where do you take lessons?”

“My Mother died!”

Fuck.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the light on my phone was flashing; someone had sent me a text message. Since my conversation with Bomber was going nowhere, I figured it would be a good time to excuse myself to go the restroom. I did and found out that Brian had texted me from across the table.

“That orange guy is so weird!” he said.

“I know!” I texted back, “You guys should help me talk to him!”

“No way!”

I slugged my way back to the table like a murderer walking to the electric chair. Bomber was that painful.

After awhile, we realized Tiffany did not plan to join us for dinner. Considering the entire reason we were attending this dinner was to get to know Tiffany, it seemed pointless for us to stay.

“I think we’ll head home,” my Husband insisted, “Call us later if you want to hang out.”

“Sure thing,” said Brian.

“It was a pleasure getting to know you,” I lied to Bomber.

“Yes, yes,” he nodded creepily.

We didn’t make it out of the building before Brian sent my Husband a text message. My Husband immediately started laughing.

“What? Let me see!” I demanded.

He showed me his phone which read: “That weird orange guy is telling me that he thinks V is really hot!”

I groaned aloud and my Husband texted Brian back.

“What did you say?” I asked.

I read his phone again: “Tell him that you think she was really attracted to him as well.”

Then, “Haha, OK.”

I think it goes without saying that my Husband is an evil, disloyal, betraying bastard! Also, if I end up dead and buried under Bomber’s porch it is 100% his fault.

This finally, finally brings me to my point: “Nice Guys” are assholes.

You see, I bet Bomber thinks of himself as a typical “nice guy.” There is no doubt in my mind he spends hours on Internet message boards posting nonstop repetitive rants bemoaning the fact that women don’t seem to like him because he’s a really nice guy. In reality, he laments dramatically, women only want jerks. Women want guys who belittle them and refuse to call them after sex. Oh, woe is him!

What “Nice guys” never seem to consider is that the reason women don’t want them has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with their proposed “niceness.”

Women want funny guys. Women want smart guys. Women want guys who have mastered the skill of witty banter and are fully capable of carrying on a lively and interesting conversation. If all of this also came in a ‘nice’ package, women would pull those panties down so quick they would get burn marks on their goddamn thighs.

Do you want to know what women don’t want? They don’t want dorky little creeps with zero social skills who leer at them and interrupt conversations about karate to talk about their dead fucking Mother. They don’t like stuttering freaks or drooling nincompoops. The virgin serial killer vibe doesn’t get them hot. So sorry.

Despite their whiny insistence, self proclaimed “nice guys” are not getting snubbed because they’re nice. They’re getting snubbed because never, never, ever in my life have I met one who wasn’t also SOCIALLY RETARDED.

Learn to carry on a conversation, you creeps. After that, I guarantee you’ll get laid.

Guest Writer: Dame B.

Hello and congratulations. Congratulations on being a part of the decision that made this nation move well and with style. Yeah, I’ll feed the stereotype, we do move well, better even than Bill with sax in hand.

Everyone asks us, “how does this feel?” It feels right, I say. The Presidential election is a hurricane of process and progress landing on our shores, the strongest gale of which was not ours, but the wooing gradient wind constant throughout belongs to us. See, we’ve been winning, waiting, fighting, waiting, losing, and waiting some more for this moment in history. But, this Hallmark card costs $4.25 and we need gas, gotta pay down some bills, and we can tell it better than any greeting card anyhow.

The Presidential election was a numbers game when we look at it through the electoral lens. The US was a bruised and bloodied map blotted with blue and red, the colors engaging in a perpetually palliative tug of rope. Blue won and so did black- it felt that equality and justice prevailed. And then we started hearing about California.

California is facing a brand new reckoning. In Cali, we responded to the promise of change in record numbers. We voted on equity for our President and even for our livestock. We elected a President who, like it or not, is the poster child for real progress on equality. We deemed the small living space of god damned bred hens and calves unjust, granting them more legroom. Yet, we told gays, our fellow fucking species, that they, strictly due to their sexual proclivities, could not get a “marriage” license. What?

Everyone can see the tug of war of white vs. black and weak vs. strong play out on the national and international stages. We can look to our victors and our victims as the same people: Martin Luther King, Jr., Rubin “Hurricane” Carter and John Artis, Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela, etc… As blacks across the US, we have been bullied and blessed by progress. We have been broken and built up by due process. We have been bartered and burdened by both and we will undoubtedly continue to be. And for that very reason, we need to champion the rights of others, just as others have done for us.

What are we waiting for? For gays to be enslaved? For gay citizens to be wrongly convicted of heinous crimes? For gay rights leaders to be persecuted and assassinated? We may be winning right now, but others are losing and our fucking voice is the most powerful tool we can give them now. They need us, understand?

Like I wrote before, congratulations on this decision for change. This change, though, will come and go. It will bite us, burn us, bathe us, and burp itself up eventually and when it does, we’ll need friends—preferably the passionate and fun loving kind that are fabulously skilled networkers, have connections to the media and entertainment industry, and have loads of excess cash to contribute to worthy “human” causes.

Over the next few weeks, we will be posting contributions from guest writers (yes, V will still write when she feels like it). You will have a say in which guest writers are invited to contribute on a regular basis. We will make our decisions based on the comments you email to: ViolentAcresBlog@gmail.com Comments on the blog will be disabled to discourage douche-baggery. So let us know what you think of Dame B. Should we invite her back?

Quite a few people have asked me my thoughts on this year’s election and other such nonsense. However, since the election is over and done with, I have very little drive to write a detailed description of all the nuances of my political leanings. Instead, I’ll just quote phrases I uttered to friends and family during the day of the election and trust that you can deduce my feelings from there.

On asking people who they voted for:
So…did you go hippy liberal commie or psychotic fascist nazi?

On how I voted:
First, I asked for a PAPER ballot, NOT electronic. Then, I went over to the special table for PAPER voters and filled in the little circle labeled ‘write in candidate.’ I wrote in Ron Paul for President and Dennis Kucinich for Vice President. I also wrote ‘I’m your biggest fan!’ in the margin, sealed my envelope, and moon walked out of there. Does my dream team have a shot in hell at winning? Of course not. Will I be able to sleep tonight? Absolutely.

On John McCain’s concession speech:
He should just walk up to the podium, scream ‘FUCK PALIN,’ and then drop the mic Chris Rock style and walk away.

On Obama’s acceptance speech:
Wouldn’t it be totally awesome if he came out wearing a sideways ball cap with the song ‘Whoop, there it is!’ playing the background?

On having sex with my husband:
V: I’m so cold. But it’s a good thing you’re like a blanket…with a penis.

Husband: *laughs*

V: Hm, I suppose that’s one of the odder things I’ve said during sex. I should put that on my website.

Husband: *still laughing*

V: I’ll add it into my comments about the election. I doubt anyone will notice.

On what will happen to our country now that we’ve elected a new President:
No matter what happens, the next four years are not my fault. Ultimately, that’s all I care about.