Geez

I’m trying desperately to get over the guns, girls and gambling that have marred my past, and you decide to send me to Vegas. Vegas. The pinnacle of gambling, the zenith of girls, the haven for gun-toting derelicts and the summit of affiliates, and that’s where you want me to be. For three nights, nonetheless! I spent three nights in Vegas five years ago and I thought I was gone for a decade. This time it will probably feel like two decades, and no, I doubt I’ll have a Confi article to submit for next week. And the only gun in my past was the one I wielded while playing “Duck Hunt.” Oh yeah, and the pistol I fired in Arizona with my grandpa while lighting up cans on a log. That was many years ago.

The original Nintendo. Totally hot some years back. Still is, I suppose. Not hot like my new Playstation3 and Xbox360 offers, but hey, I’ll rock a shameless plug and still feel good about it in the morning. Keep the big mailers mailing, the big paths incenting, the big searchers searching and the big poppers popping. And then there’s the infamous web placement cats. How’s this for scary. I’m still a young guy, but when I began college, none of our companies were in existence. There were no affiliate networks, Canspam hadn’t even been dreamt of, and most likely every person reading this was in an entirely different industry altogether. Well, not everyone. Man, if there were still no Canspam guys would be pumping out more hot mails than Bangkok in the summertime.

Wow, look at that. We are mighty close to summertime, aren’t we? Vegas will be warm, not that I’ll be outside or anything. Not like I’m ever outside anymore, except to grab a Vanilla Latte. I gotta say this, I love my boss. I hope I can learn to be as patient as he is when I have people running in my office crying and complaining all day long. It used to be acceptable when I couldn’t write a string of linear sentences. Reason being, I could tie them all in come the conclusion, creating an alternate reality where there was some sort of cohesive nature when you stretched your chest across the finish. Now I can’t even get one sentence straight. As in, one single entity of a sentence. This industry has completely scrambled my brain where it’s the only thing I’m capable of doing. Like if I ever were to leave or be banished from it, I would be relegated to asking if you wanted your Vanilla Latte nonfat or iced or with an extra shot or frothy or super sweet or whatever the hell else is offered. Examine the events of this evening.

I left work at a reasonable hour to go to my new home. My new home that I have been to twice in a month because I’m either at work or recouping from it in the form of bedtime banishment. I arrived there to find that the electricity I had turned on at long last had in fact not been turned on, and the mail that I had not yet picked up had not been delivered, because the previous owners were still receiving mail so my cracker-jack mailbox was full. Why is that a problem? Well, the electricity factor was a problem because I pissed on my CARPETED bathroom floor, as it was dark by the time I arrived there. Not that I had any cleaning supplies in my vacant crib, so I deluged the carpet with handfuls of water, dumped arbitrarily because once again, I couldn’t see. Why? Because there was no ELECTRICITY, even though I am now paying for it. Second issue, my mail situation. The Twinkies who moved out had all kinds of pamphlets and 401k brochures and pyramid scheme documents housing my box, crowding it in a most miserable fashion. So much so that a notice accompanied the schemes that read, “Mailbox full, please claim all mail at Post Office.” Why is that of such significance? Because the one piece being held ransom at the Post Office is my first mortgage bill, a payment that will now be late, late as in delinquent, delinquent as in delineated responsibility that I neglected to obey. What’s the record on being foreclosed on? Pour a deep, dark stout on your boy’s behalf, because I’m about to be called Guinness. There’s plenty to be had in Vegas, so I hear. Lucky for me I don’t drink. Or gamble. Or play with guns, gun play with ladies, flex my guns, shoot dice, shoot whiskey, or shoot off at innocent maidens. Nothing of the sort. Anyway, when I get my balls foreclosed can I live with you for a while? Please? I promise not to bring my rifles or portable craps table with me. See ya at the summit, shooters.