// Austrians Do it Differently

By M.Martin .
07.28.10 // Office Politics

Well, since I don’t know whether it is very common for new Blommit contributors to introduce themselves – at least I couldn’t remember such an introduction – I decided to keep it short:

Who am I? Where am I from? Old philosophical questions that – in this particular case – can be answered in a single sentence:

My name is M.Martin, I’m from Vienna/Austria/Europe and I’m not a native English speaker, so please be prepared for some weird grammar and Palin-like word creations.

Why am I here? (Not less philosophically…)

I managed to convince the Blommit team that they are in desperate need of a foreign contributor – I also might have been the only applicant so far but that is mere speculation – and so they allowed me to contribute to their magnificent piece of contemporary art (and I’m serious about that).

Let’s give it a try:

“[...] This weeks topic is ‘Office Politics’ [...] good luck, and make it happen [...]” – that’s the only order I’ve got and I wondered what ‘office politics’ is supposed to mean. I’ve never heard of it! I thought that this might be some kind of word game where you first have to name a location (like “office”) followed by an abstract concept that is remotely connected with the location (like “politics”):

Office – Politics
Austrian Basements – Weird Family Bonds
Subway Station – STD
Guantanamo – Creative Interpretation of Human Rights
Catholic Church – Politics, Weird Family Bonds, STD and Creative
Interpretation of Human Rights

But then I decided to take a look into a dictionary and I noticed that if you connect these two words, they form a new word that means exactly the same as in German: Office = Büro, Politics = Politik, “Office Politics” = Büropolitik. Why does the English language not allow to connect those two words to “officepolitics”? I mean, Büropolitik is more than just two words in a row, those two words form something completely new. That is maybe the only aspect where German is superior to English, just have a look on the mighty German word “Krankenschwesternausbildungskostenrückerstattungsformular” – in English you would have to write “refund application form for nursing school education expenses”… and this word could even be extended “processing of refund application forms for nursing school education expenses” = “Krankenschwesternausbildungskostenrückerstattungsformularbearbeitung” or “error during processing of refund application forms for nursing school education expenses” = “Krankenschwesternausbildungskostenrückerstattungsformularbearbeitungsfehler” or “correction routine for errors that appear during the processing of refund application forms for nursing school education expenses” = “Krankenschwesternausbildungskostenrückerstattungsformularbearbeitungsfehlerkorrekturbehandlung”… now THAT is a word!

Back to the topic: Büropolitik… mhmm, that’s a tough one, but I’m perfectly pleased with this topic since it gives me the opportunity to start with a mediocre contribution that keeps expectations low.

As I understood it, Büropolitik is the concept of acting in a certain way to gain influence within an organization. Well, this is definitely not part of my philosophy:

My first employer, a company that builds slot machines for casinos, hired me although they had no work for me. Sounds like an easy job – but it was terrible! There was literally nothing for me to do, except staring out of the window (since I hadn’t access to the Internet either). After a few months (!) my boss asked me whether I’d like my job or not and I answered: “It’s great but till now the only place where I get productive is on the toilet!” – He couldn’t laugh about it.

Shortly before I resigned (after two years without having programmed a single line of code) one of the R&D department managers asked me what kind of work I’d like to do and I replied “I’d like to be an astronaut!” – He then said: “No, I actually meant: in what part of the upcoming project might you be interested?”

My next employer was Microsoft Austria. During my second week at MS my manager came into my office and told me to do something. I replied: “No!” He made big eyes and asked what I would mean with “No” – I replied: “I’m not interested in this task! In fact: I don’t even care about this product! Who needs it anyway?” – He left my office without saying a word.

A short time later I was asked by a MS-HR manager to join the company’s Christmas celebration where they would visit a workshop to build toys for handicapped children and have a decent meal afterward. – My honest reply was: “No thanks! Here you have 20 EURs for the kids – it isn’t much but this little money is definitely more worthwhile than everything I could ever build with my own hands. And don’t take it personally, but I don’t want to ‘take a decent meal’ with you since I see your face on every single day, while I haven’t seen my family once during the whole last year. I also quit celebrating my birthdays at the age of 20 because I think it’s a quite useless tradition! Where is the personal achievement in getting older? Therefore – for me – there is no real reason in celebrating the birthday of Baby Jesus either. Nevertheless I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!” – A couple of month later my engagement at Microsoft ended for some strange reason… I almost forgot: when I left MS they gave me a T-Shirt stating “I don’t even care about it!” on the back… that was funny…

At my current company I had to join a “Wellcome/Get to know your company”-Event where I had to introduce myself in front of the whole company: “My Name is… bla, bla… and in my spare time I’m restoring old chainsaws in my kitchen!”

A week later my boss told me to take part at a two day communication seminar at some remote, desert like place. I said: “No thanks!” and she replied: “But everyone has to join this seminar! If you don’t join this seminar people might think that you don’t care about them!” – I already thought that the conversation is over since it is more than obvious that I don’t care about anybody but she still stood next to my desk, waiting for some sort of reaction and so I asked: “Do I get payed?” and she answered “Well, of course.” “I mean, will I get payed the full 48 hours?” and she said: “No, the seminar only lasts 8 hours per day!” I replied: “Yeah, but it is that far away that I won’t make it home by night!” – She said something like: “Oh, I see!” and that was that…

View Comments / Jul 28.10 / Office Politics / by M.Martin

// The Poenisher

By Matt Spicer .
07.25.10 // Summer Blockbusters

Listen below for audio trailer:

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Voiceovers: Matt Spicer and Emily Lacy

View Comments / Jul 25.10 / Summer Blockbusters / by Matt Spicer

// Strap Yourselves In, Kids

By Alex Aloise .
07.22.10 // Summer Blockbusters

It’s always been a secret dream of mine to be a famous Screenwriter. A few years ago, I wrote my first film. I think it’s got the potential to do AVATAR-like business (without sucking, of course). And lucky for you, I’m giving you a free taste of my masterpiece right here on Blommit. Below are some select scenes from the screenplay. You can thank me later.

Wright & Wong

View Comments / Jul 22.10 / Summer Blockbusters / by Alex Aloise

// Donut.

By Ben Cheney .
07.21.10 // Summer Blockbusters

View Comments / Jul 21.10 / Summer Blockbusters / by Ben Cheney

// “It is the East, and Sarah is the sun”

By Joey Camire .
07.21.10 // Summer Blockbusters

Not sure how much y’all keep up with Sarah Palin, but some of you might have heard about one more in a long line of controversial statements she made recently.  Long story short, she had a series of tweets that contained either made-up or misused words.  Now, if you’ve ever read any of my posts before, you will know that I am in no place to criticize, my spelling is horrendous and I’m still figuring out that comma thing.  However, that’s not what made the whole debacle interesting, that feat goes to the following tweet:

“”Refudiate,” “misunderestimate,” “wee-wee’d up.” English is a living language. Shakespeare liked to coin new words too. Got to celebrate it!”

That’s right “folks,” Sarah Palin isn’t afraid to give herself credit where credit is due.  She loves making up words.  She regularly sends submissions to Mirriam-Webster.  But everyone has got something to say. “Haters gonna hate.”  However, Sarah Palin is not the type of person to let people make vacuous claims sitting down, “you betcha” she’s gonna prove it to the world that she is as Shakespearean as the next hockey-mom.

This summer Sarah Palin will be staring in a series of Hollywood Blockbuster re-makes of Shakespeare’s classics.  Take a look at the posters below. (Click the images to see the originals.)

Sarah Palin in Hamlet – “A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.”

Sarah Palin in Othello – “Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.”

Sarah Palin in Romeo and Juliet - “O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright”

Sarah Palin in Shakespeare In Love – “I liked it when she stabbed herself, Your Majesty.”

View Comments / Jul 21.10 / Summer Blockbusters / by Joey Camire

// That’s Hilarious!

By Wheatstraw Worley .
07.18.10 // The Funniest Joke Ever

View Comments / Jul 18.10 / The Funniest Joke Ever / by Wheatstraw Worley

// Life.

By Matt Spicer .
07.18.10 // The Funniest Joke Ever

Life.

You wake up to a giant with a mask that slaps you on the ass.
You must learn the concept of depth so you don’t fall into holes.
You must learn to eat out of  spoons that make airplane noises.
You must flail your arms to try and walk on two limbs and it hurts your ass.
You must then learn thousands of rules.
You learn some rules that help you communicate other rules.
You break some rules and get caught.
You learn how to break rules and not get caught.
You learn about a bunch of old dudes that lived before you.
You have to follow some of the rules that they wrote on some old paper.
You gain a certain paper that can buy you objects.
You learn that some people fucking love these objects.
People push rules on you about what’s going to happen when you die. You accept out of fear, deny everything, or find a middle ground to avoid it all.
There is now death looming over your life.
People pull stunts and give you promises.
A lot of these people try to rise to power so that they can sign paper that makes rules for a large designated piece of land.
You try to figure out what love is.
This goes on for the rest of your life. Maybe with someone maybe with no one.
You get inspired and everything seems to be perfect.
Some shit happens and everything seems pointless.
You cut the difference and keep on keeping on.
This whole time you’ve acquired a lot of shit. Physical and mental.
You find a comfortable place.
Maybe you don’t see it coming.
But either way, if they don’t light you on fire, you’re probably getting dirt thrown in your face.

View Comments / Jul 18.10 / The Funniest Joke Ever / by Matt Spicer

// I’m sorry, Jerry.

By Ben Cheney .
07.16.10 // The Funniest Joke Ever

It was all a misunderstanding. A big, medical related misunderstanding. But no one believes me. People just think I’m crazy. They literally think I’m The Joker or something, all twisted and tormented inside. But I’m not. Sure, I have a creepy disposition and I love Tim Burton, but I’m not crazy. I’m a nice man who just so happens to have a self-diagnosed case of reverse reaction disorder.

What is reverse reaction disorder, you ask? It’s a neurological disorder with a physical manifestation. I have extreme and reverse reactions to good and evil — I laugh at evil things and yell at good things.

I’ve learned to live with my disorder, mainly by developing a lack of reaction. I was a stone faced stunna, never smiling or frowning, not even for a popsicle. I enjoyed reading the Encyclopedia Britannica and watching Chop-O-Matic specials on QVC because I could relax, knowing that both were super boring and neither would evoke any emotion.

ANYWAY, I was hanging out at the coffee shop one day with Jerry. I like Jerry because he is void of just about any emotion. He’s kind of like that Dry Eyes guy, but not as funny as him. Which is perfect for me, because I can’t handle funny. But Jerry was ignorant to my condition; I don’t like to flaunt it.

I digress. We were sitting there, at the marbled counter, talking about prosthetics, when Jerry says, “I heard a story the other day.” Now normally, I would get all jittery if someone were to say this, not sure what kind of a story it would be, and therefore unsure of my reaction. But with Jerry, I figure that everything is as boring as the dickens, so I don’t pay it any mind. I let him tell his story.

Well I tell you what, that was the funniest joke I had ever heard. And, because of my condition, I lashed out in a major rage. I grabbed my coffee and threw it in Jerry’s face. Then I socked him across the jaw with my coffee cup. I picked him up and threw him to the ground. Pancakes went everywhere. And I beat him to death with a bar stool.

So, long story short, I’m doing hard time because of a medical related misunderstanding. I’m in jail with a bunch of people with dumb tattoos, crazy brains, and, ironically, missing limbs.

View Comments / Jul 16.10 / The Funniest Joke Ever / by Ben Cheney

// You’ll Either Love Me or Hate Me…

By Alex Aloise .
07.12.10 // The Funniest Joke Ever

…but this is my all-time favorite joke

View Comments / Jul 12.10 / The Funniest Joke Ever / by Alex Aloise

// The Battle For Lebron

By Joey Camire .
07.11.10 // Competition

View Comments / Jul 11.10 / Competition / by Joey Camire

// It IS a competition

By Ben Cheney .
07.11.10 // Competition

A lot of smart people will tell you that one of the secrets to a successful marriage/partnership/relationship is compromise. They’ll tell you that marriage isn’t a competition. And they’ll use Bart and Ophelia from Westerville, OH who’ve been married for 60 years as an example, noting that they spent their time loving and caring for each other instead of competing with one another. This, they will tell you, is the main reason their love endured the test of time.

Well, I may be new(ish) to this marriage thing, but I say marriage IS a competition and compromise and competition aren’t mutually exclusive.

I compete with my wife every day. We compete to see who is the smartest and who is the best and who is the fastest and who the dogs love more and who is the better cook and all sorts of other things.

We use this competition to keep things interesting. We use it as a way to laugh at each other and make fun of one another. We use it as a way to ease tension during conflicts. And we use it as a way to stay humble and grounded.

So far, I think my record is somewhere around 6-434-23, but that’s probably why it works.

View Comments / Jul 11.10 / Competition / by Ben Cheney

// The Pink Card

By Matt Spicer .
07.11.10 // Competition

After watching the world cup over the past month I’ve noticed a problem. People (Person) Using Sufficient Sobbery Yo or P.U.S.S.Y. The “Yo” was added to this acronym because plenty of times when a person commits sufficient sobbery they do it in such a ridiculous manner that a common human response is “Yo!” or sometimes “Whoat!?” or even just mumbled grumbling.

This problem arises when someone is rolling around on the ground holding their shin and we watch the play back and they were barely touched. Or when players are whining to the ref when we see them in the play-back and they weren’t even looking at the play. Or when something called a Luis Suarez commits a blatant hand ball to keep Ghana, the last African team, out of the tournament. That deserves a pink and a red card. That way he knows he’s not manly and definitely not honorable. And that he probably needed a better father figure as a child.

I propose to Fifa that they give their referees pink cards to give players when they commit acts of P.U.S.S.Y. This will finally let the referees use the instant replay for review. Come on  Fifa, you don’t have to the stop the game, have a fourth Ref watching the play back and he will signal the ref on the field. Problem solved.

Now I’m not trying to say that players commit P.U.S.S.Y. every time. There are some bad fouls that go down. That’s why we will give each coach a slab of red meat that he can hold up to refute a pink card. He can refute 3 pink cards. But if he uses his slab of meat to refuse all three then he must eat the steak on camera. And the camera man must play it back in slow motion for a little bit.

And Fifa, the pink card has so many marketable attributes that you will definitely get your money back on all the pink cards you’ll have to make. You’re gonna need a lot. There’s been a lot of P.U.S.S.Y. going on in this World Cup.  Just think, you could have a pink card of the day where we showcase the biggest P.U.S.S.Y. of the day and you can email that player the video. I’m sure beer sponsors will find some awful joke around it that they can market it alongside an animal that farts or that bites a man in the crotch. You could even give the fan that cries the most the pink card.

Because we all know true competitors compete. They don’t cry. And this is coming from a man that cries a lot.

View Comments / Jul 11.10 / Competition / by Matt Spicer

// Some Things Should Never Become Competitive

By Wheatstraw Worley .
07.09.10 // Competition

View Comments / Jul 09.10 / Competition / by Wheatstraw Worley

// Here’s a Thought…

By Brad Hagen .
07.09.10 // Competition

One of the great American traditions went down last weekend, the Nathans International July Fourth Hot Dog Eating Contest. The contest is rumored to have started on July 4th 1916 when four immigrants wanted to find out who among them was the most patriotic. So, naturally, they decided a hot dog eating contest would settle it. This year American Joey “Jaws” Chestnut won the event, the coveted mustard yellow belt and the $20,000 prize. In a truly American show of gluttony Joey ate 54 Hot Dogs and Buns (or HDBs as they’re called on the eating scene) in ONLY TEN MINUTES!! That’s 5.9 hotdogs a minute!!! That is ridiculous, preposterous, and gross. It was also a great example of why so many people around the globe don’t like us. The fact that we celebrate and reward one man eating in ten minutes, enough food to feed an African village for a month is sad and disturbing. Which is why I think we should move the 2011 contest from Coney Island to the poorest nation in the world: Zimbabwe.

We can set up everything like it is on Coney Island. The stage, the Hot Dog mascot, the Giant score board and of course all those dogs. Zimbabweans will walk from miles around to see how the better half of the world lives. Not hungry and emaciated like themselves but with so much food that contests are held to see who can eat the most without puking. Zimbabweans wouldn’t know what they were seeing,. They came to see “competitive eating” which in their world and minds is one bag of rice fought over by 100 people and at the end the winners are those still alive and the losers die of mal nutrition. They would look in disbelief as beings they would have to believe to be super human scoff down hotdogs at a rate of almost six a minute. Showing them America’s awesomeness wouldn’t stop there though. We could also bring the latest super soakers filled with Smart Water. They would think these are used to quench peoples thirst from a distance or maybe even a nifty tool for watering crops. Won’t they be surprised when we show them that we use them to shoot perfectly potable water at each other in a sporting and sometimes annoying kind of way? Then just when they think they’ve seen it all we’ll show them a chocolate fountain, like the ones used for weddings, and their HEADS WILL EXPLODE!!!.

View Comments / Jul 09.10 / Competition / by Brad Hagen

// I Suggested This Ad…

By Alex Aloise .
07.08.10 // Competition

…they didn’t take it.

View Comments / Jul 08.10 / Competition / by Alex Aloise

// 10:00

By Tristan Smith .
07.07.10 // Competition

something in a blue dress
not the devil but something made
of skin and breasts and perfume
I would do anything for you to you with you
beyond what I already did
which was inhale you like an ant hill of cocaine
as I walked by, delirious, brought down by the locks I have
to open and the magazines I have to read.

I hope you never get cancer.

View Comments / Jul 07.10 / Competition / by Tristan Smith

// I wish I were a mad scientist.

By Matt Spicer .
07.04.10 // Missed Opportunity

A mad scientist is completely and irrevocably enveloped in what they are working on. There are no opportunities to miss. It’s not like a mad scientist missed the opportunity to be a better mad scientist or go to the mad scientist academy for a degree in the sciences of mad.  They don’t think about that, they just do their thing. And they do it passionately and without combing their hair.

That’s the benefit of being mad and into science. The combination makes for an extremely passionate person who doesn’t care what other people think, and this is partially evident by looking like a combination of the Doc from “Back to the Future” and Einstein mixed with a cocaine addict who just stuck his finger in a light socket.

One could argue that a mad scientist could miss the opportunity to get married, have kids, save for an early retirement or buy a nice boat. And I would say to this person, do you understand the concept of a mad scientist?  They don’t live in society. They find a sweet underground lair or an abandoned mansion in the hills. They don’t feel love for other humans or boats, they are so fully engrossed in their work that they have to employ short, creepy and disfigured assistants to help them. They don’t pay taxes or run errands they eat whatever their creepy assistants bring them. And they don’t have to try and meet women to fall in love, they just build one in their lab, complete with human features and adjustable libido.

That’s the beauty of being mad. You are engulfed in exactly what makes you passionate. So missing an opportunity means you have died. I guess one could say that a mad scientist misses out on everything other than his mad science, but to him nothing else matters. While this is selfish in a way, if more people just did what they love I think the world would be a better place. You’d have a mad water purifier and a mad helper of starving people who would buy the mad water purification of the mad water purifier. The problem is that the mad water purifier was probably told to be something else or like most people got used to being mildly entertained by cable, the internet and porn and lost sight of what makes him mad.

I don’t think I’ve found something I could call my life’s work yet. I still do lots of things without passion and I still catch myself being bored and pressured to live the normal human lifestyle. I’d also have to come up with a new way to describe being extremely passionate about what I do for a living so as not to sound like a stoned surfer.

“Yeah man, I’m a mad writer.”

People need to go a little mad and stop worrying about what they’re missing out on. Find something you love and stick to it. If you don’t you’ll drive yourself crazy.

View Comments / Jul 04.10 / Missed Opportunity / by Matt Spicer

// A hyper-sensitive society.

By Ben Cheney .
07.04.10 // Missed Opportunity

If we think about every missed opportunity as a missed opportunity, then we will, no doubt, miss opportunities.

What I mean by that is this.

Living life harping on what we fail to do or fail to achieve or fail to see will only ensure that we realize all of these “failures”. Not to mention that this is a pessimistic mindset to begin with. And because of this, we may derive missed opportunities from situations in which there may not have actually been a missed opportunity in the first place.

Misinterpretation of opportunities is an easy trap to step in. Statistically easier, in fact, than stepping in a bear or coon trap (unless you spend more than 65% of your time in the woodlands).

Although it may be harder to make sure not to pass up opportunities in the first place or look for a different opportunity that arose from the missed opportunity, it is nearly impossible to ignore the presence of opportunities altogether. It seems as though society has taught us that we must make or miss opportunities — there is NO grey area here. This has created a hyper-sensitivity towards making or missing opportunities, as though they make or break one’s life. Certainly, the choices we make will determine the course our life takes, but I doubt missing the opportunity to go to a Jethro Tull concert in 1971 really made much of a difference (unless it protected you from starting a 34-year coke habit/total downward spiral topped off by a starring role on season 2, episode 3 of A&E’s Intervention).

But at the end of the day, the most important thing is that we are happy with the way we live our lives. And if, for you, that means being hyper-aware of all your (so-called) opportunities, then so be it.

View Comments / Jul 04.10 / Missed Opportunity / by Ben Cheney

// MISSED OPPORTUNITIES ARE FOREVER

By Jordan Childs .
07.03.10 // Missed Opportunity

View Comments / Jul 03.10 / Missed Opportunity / by Jordan Childs

// Indecisive

By Jake Dubs .
06.30.10 // Missed Opportunity

Little kids have it easy.

When you’re a little kid you pretty much know where you’re headed.

It’s not until you’re of a certain age—for me, it’s almost 26—that you realize the older you get, the more decisions you have to make. And the harder those decisions become.

It starts off the same for everyone.

You are born. Your parents nurse you. They feed you. They clothe you. They clean up your shit.

You grow bigger. You’re strapped into a car seat. You’re enrolled in pre-school. You have to.

Whether you want to or not, you go to kindergarten.

1^st grade.

2^nd grade.

3^rd grade.

4^th grade.

5^th grade.

Elementary school. Done.

On to the next one.

Despite your pleas, you are forced to go to middle school every day, even though these three years might as well consist of simply walking onto a stage at your most awkward, ugly, naïve and vulnerable, and be laughed at by everyone you ever cared about before being marched, crying and blue-balled, onwards, to 9^th grade.

High school. It’s just what you do.

A bit more freedom comes into play. You can further indoctrinate yourself into a crowd. You can choose your classes. You can choose your sports. You hone in on your abilities. Or just smoke pot. Or both.

You graduate. The decisions intensify.

You choose your college.  Maybe you choose to be pre-med. Or English. Or mass comm. Or maybe you don’t go to college at all.

Maybe you go travel. Or you deliver pizza. Or you get a girlfriend. Or you kill yourself.

You choose a Fraternity or a Sorority. You choose to live on or off campus. Maybe you take an internship during the summer. Maybe you choose to sit on your ass and lifeguard. Or maybe you choose to just sit on your ass.

You graduate again. More decisions.

You decide to go work. Or maybe you take a year off. Or maybe you move to India. Or maybe you go to grad school.

You graduate grad school. More.

You decide on a job. Could be close to home. Could be on the other side of the country.

Or you do something else. More. More.

And then another opportunity comes along.

And that’s when it hits you. That’s when you’re finally aware of what you always knew: eventually the world turns into one big unrestricted wide open lonely liberal fuck-all free-for-all where every decision affects the one after it.

And there’s no one who can tell you what to do.

And the stakes are high.

And it’s your life.

And it’s your move,

son.

View Comments / Jun 30.10 / Missed Opportunity / by Jake Dubs

// The Ballad of Jefferson Conley

By Alex Aloise .
06.28.10 // Missed Opportunity

Have you ever been “that close?” Were you ever within arm’s reach of that brass ring? Did you ever think to yourself, “If only I’d done that, I wouldn’t be doing this?”

The saying goes that opportunity knocks but only once. Sometimes lives are dramatically altered by one split-second decision. Turn right or turn left? Yes or no? It’s all about the choices we make and the actions we take.

Take Pete Best, for example. He’s the infamous “Fifth Beatle.” The original drummer for the band, it’s been theorized that Pete simply didn’t gel with John, Paul, and George. They ultimately replaced him with Ringo Starr, just a short time before their worldwide cultural explosion. If Best had just tried a little harder and been the slightest bit more social, he’d be an icon, and the world would have never known “Yellow Submarine.”

Ron Wayne is another example. Along with Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak, Wayne helped to found Apple Computers in the 1970s. He was the elder statesman of the trio, the one with all of the business sense. In the official legal trademark documents, Wayne is listed as a 10% partner in the company. His keen business senses, though, told him that the venture would ultimately fail. Eleven days after signing the papers he backed out, taking his 10% share of the company at that time with him: $800. Had he stuck it out and taken the chance, Wayne’s 10% today would be worth an estimated $22 Billion.

Even the immortal Hulk Hogan is not invulnerable to a missed opportunity or two. He and George Foreman at one time shared the same manager. Said manager called Hulk up one day and left a voicemail asking if he’d be interested in putting his name on a new grill that was set to come out. Hogan never got the message until a few days later. By then, the manager had offered the same deal to Foreman, who happily accepted, and has since made an estimated $200+ Million off his decision. By the time Hulk got back to his manager, he was forced to accept an offer to promote a blender – The Hulk Hogan Thunder Mixer.

My point in all of this is that there’s another story of great opportunity missed, one that has yet to be told. It’s the story of this very page that you’re reading right now.

When Blommit officially got started in 2008 there were 7 weekly contributors. We would all meet to discuss the details of the site: how it would run, who would post when, the design, the identity, etc. It was (and still is) a full-time job. Posting gripping original content every week and maintaining the daily goings-on with the site AND trying to finish graduate school was a daunting task. That being the case, we brought on an 8th man to help us out. He was to be our silent partner. He never wanted to be responsible for creating and posting content, but he was more than happy to run the site for us. He was in charge of putting up the polls, archiving the older posts, fielding the comments, and any and all other aspects necessary to running the Blommit on a daily basis.

Jefferson “Jeffy” Conley was our saving grace in the early days. Without him, Blommit may never have even gotten off the ground. The way we met him was sort of serendipitous, to say the least, the 7 of us originals all went to grad school together in Richmond, VA. That’s where we all met and dreamt up the monster that would one day become Blommit. We used to spend a lot of time drinking together at a place called Bogart’s. We would always see this old man at the end of the bar, drinking by himself, night after night. He was definitely a townie, born and raised in Richmond’s city limits, and he didn’t appear to have any plans of ever venturing outside of his hometown.

One night, it was a Tuesday, we were at Bogart’s having our usual discussion about the current state of the site. Out of nowhere, the enigmatic old timer stumbled up to our booth and promptly took a seat. He didn’t’ say much at first. It was probably a good 30 minutes before he piped up. We were initially startled, but eventually we just figured he was old, drunk, and sick of sitting on a stool. After the confusion about our new tablemate wore off we continued on with our conversation. We were in the middle of talking about that week’s topic, “Documentaries.” Suddenly the old man chimed in, “Didja ever see The Horse With The Flying Tail? Now that’s a helluva picture!” and then promptly took another shot of his Wild Turkey.

For the next couple of weeks, whenever we went to Bogart’s, Jeffy would sit down with us and spout off some wisdom that was vaguely related to what we were talking about. When we were going over the posts for “Seven Deadly Sins,” Jeffy spouted, “Ya know who broke every sin in the book? CHURCHILL!” and then called him an English pussy. When we went in to talk about the topic “Business Cards” Jeffy said nothing. Instead he pulled out a crumpled old condom that had a piece of paper reading, “JEFFY – WHY NOT?” stapled to the middle of it and slammed it on the table. No explanation was needed.

The next day, we had an impromptu meeting back at the bar. As usual, Jeffy was there. By this point we were all fascinated by the somehow-still-mesmerizingly-lucid old man and asked him if he’d like to become a contributor to the site. We figured that if nothing else, we could simply film his one-liners and non-sequiturs, unleashing an unstoppable meme unto the internet masses. But Jeffy immediately shot down that idea with a “Nah” and a slow-creeping wet fart. Immediately thereafter, though, he shouted, “I’LL RUN IT FOR YA.” We were all skeptical at first, obviously, but something inside me said that behind the senile façade was a genius, waiting to be released. I convinced the other 6 to let me take Jeffy on as my pet-project-of-sorts. I’d run through everything he’d need to know with him and make sure that he was capable of performing the job. Somehow, they agreed.

I worked with Jeffy for about a week, showing him the ins and outs of running the site. Incredibly, he picked it up in no time. Here he was, a 60-something year old man, perpetually drunk off his ass, and he was teaching me how to maintain a website. The results were undeniable. After just three weeks we saw a spike in readership and Blommit was running smoother than ever. We made the decision to bring Jeffy on full-time. He became an equal partner in the site. It was now an 8-man operation. I think he was excited. When we told Jeffy the news he raised his glass and pissed his pants. That meant he was happy.

For the next year and half Jeffy worked tirelessly to keep the site up to speed. He helped us grow our audience and also put us into contact with a number of the people who eventually became regular contributors (though to be honest, the way he put us in contact with them was usually just another stapled-with-a-nametag-condom. He was like a dirty, drunken clairvoyant). Things were going great. The climb was a little slow but it was steady, and it was consistently going up.

By the Fall of 2010 the site was ready to explode. A few of the original 7 had fallen by the wayside a bit (after we graduated, we all moved off to different cities for work so maintaining the steady flow of communication we had had was near-impossible) but in their places were a growing number of talented and enthusiastic new writers, designers, and makers-of-cool-shit. With the expansion came greater success and more recognition than we’d ever had before. Blommit was a success.

Jeffy, though, never saw any of our newfound acclaim. I’d been trying to reach him for about a month, all with no response. I started to fear the worst: that the crazy old drunkard had finally succumbed to his demons. He never gave us his address or phone number, and he never mentioned any family. Our only mode of communication was through email and the now-occasional visit to Bogart’s whenever one of us was in Richmond. Despite all of my attempts, he’d vanished. The site was finally going to become profitable soon and he deserved a cut of it as much as anyone else. I made it my new job to track him down and get him back on board.

That actually turned out to be a lot easier than I’d anticipated. I was able to get down to Richmond for a weekend in May of 2011. I went straight to the bar. There he was, in the same spot as always. I sat down next to him and asked him why he’d dropped out of sight. Didn’t he want to be a part of things just as they were finally taking off? I told him about all of the incredible things that were happening and made it clear to him that he was still an equal partner. In typical Jeffy fashion, he didn’t say much. He just handed me an old condom with a piece of paper stapled to to the middle of it. All it said was, “Go nuts.” Then he got up and left the bar.

In the 10 years since then, none of us have seen or heard from Jefferson Conley. I know he’s still in Richmond. Friends of mine have seen him at his same spot in the bar. I don’t know why he opted out of being a part of things. We’ve got the production company, the show, the books, and all of the other pieces of the Blommit Universe. Jeffy could have been, and should have been, in on it all with us.

This is the last picture I’ve ever seen of him. I took it that last day. So Jeffy, if you’re reading this. Give me a call, or send a stapled condom.

Originally printed in WIRED magazine, July 2021

View Comments / Jun 28.10 / Missed Opportunity / by Alex Aloise

// …And You May Ask Yourself

By Julie Matheny .
06.27.10 // Just Friends

At twenty years old, I convinced myself that David Byrne was my soul mate.

This decision was made after discovering the brilliance of the Talking Heads through a particularly enlightened cousin of mine.  From that day forward, I played “Lifetime Piling Up” and “Naïve Melody” on repeat, shunning the romantic songs of the day and believing that my true other half was a beady-eyed former RISD student with a penchant for stripped-down stage shows, oversized blazers and songs about architecture and food.

Now, before you judge my taste, keep in mind my people.  As any of you who are or have at one time been passionate about music know, looks do not matter when a stage is involved.  Neither does age.  And according to the many Smiths fans out there, neither, apparently, does sexual orientation.  What matters to a sophomore attending The College of William & Mary is the idea of loving someone who is older, wiser, and artsier than any of the boys she is surrounding herself with.

Fortunately, one thing has changed for me in the past five years: I am older.  And with age comes not only adult relationship experience and intimacy, but, if you’re anything like me, exposure to the adult relationship experience and intimacy of your friends that love to date “artists.”

At age 25, after countless friend-counseling sessions, I can now say that I have met many of these “interesting” people, and I have developed a theory:  While they make fantastic friends, they are probably terrible live-in lovers.

That’s because they are absolutely insane.

Obviously, this recent conclusion upset me.  I mean, what’s up with that, David?  Why didn’t you tell me your kind was like that?  All of those conversations we had in my head, you couldn’t once mention, “oh, by the way, little girl, we’re all fucking crazy.”

And as much as it pains me to say it, while we may have a shot at some really fun, emotionally alienating times together, I see four red flags that would prevent us from true and everlasting love:

You smell bad. I know this, even though I haven’t met you. I have to be right.  There’s no way someone like you uses deodorant.  It would prevent you from smelling like yourself.  Which is OBVIOUSLY (eye roll) the point of life and the meaning of the universe (if there even IS one).

You probably have rules. People who abuse cocaine for decades at a time make fantastic concert DVDs, but often have control issues, and as someone who skied his way through the eighties, I bet you have a lot of weird rules your girlfriend must follow. Like, not being allowed to get up from a conversation to go to the bathroom until you’re done speaking, for instance.  Or, an aversion to me crossing my arms in public.  I’m assuming constant eye contact would be a bone of contention as well, not to mention the dozen bags of cherries in the freezer you have drawn smiley faces on that I’m not allowed to touch.

You’re unromantic. “The act of giving flowers is a hackneyed cliche perpetuated by the makers of torturous romantic comedies,” you’d say, between puffs of an American Spirit.  “This praying mantis, on the other hand, is so much more imaginative and indicative of the nature of our relationship.”

Okay, I get it.  Flowers are uncool.  But you know what? So are all girls ever everywhere.

No matter how many beer gardens we visit in Astoria, indie shows we attend in Williamsburg, or suspenders we rock from American Apparel, we’re never too cool to receive flowers.  They’re classic. They’re simple.  And they make us feel like pretty pretty princesses.

You’re just too fucking weird. One night, in the middle of a conversation about sustainable living on a small scale that I could not be less interested in, you’d abruptly put on some fedora and grab your bicycle.  “I’m going out,” you’d say, and return at 3am with a pet hermit crab from Chinatown and a bruise under your left eye.  You’d tuck the hermit crab in next to me swaddled in some weird tapestry with a note, and then go to the kitchen table to sit, since that’s the way you probably sleep. I’d wake up to a note the next morning with the words “Now do you understand? –Best Wishes, D.”

No.  I would not understand.  In fact, I would probably spend the next week not understanding, cursing my heart, sneaking fruit and cleaning up crustacean droppings.  Then I’d avoid you for long periods of time.  Then we’d break up.

This scenario does not sound ideal at all.  Which is why I urge those of you with hopes of dating someone more interesting than you to not make the same mistake I did (in my brain).  Because I can assure you: living with that poet in a co-op would make a great story, but probably a shitty life.



View Comments / Jun 27.10 / Just Friends / by Julie Matheny

// To My Beloved Jenny

By Chris Stephens .
06.27.10 // Just Friends

Dear Jenny,

It’s me John, your sexually androgynous, gender neutral, best guy friend from high school. Hi. How’s it going? I wanted to write you and thank you for putting me in what you affectionately called “the friend zone” or as I bitterly and dejectedly referred to it as “the no bone zone.”

You see, I learned a great deal from being rejected by you every night and going home to dry hump the shit out my bed. You taught me many life lessons that were quiet helpful in the future. As such, I should be treating you with respect as you are in a funny way my mentor. I am the Luke Skywalker to your Yoda. Much like that little green fuck opened Luke’s eyes to a magical unseen power, you opened my eyes to a new world. One where new awakened feelings rose in the pit of my stomach and where pants randomly and without warning awkwardly became tight in the crotch (something I coincidentally also referred to as “the force.”) I am the karate kid to your Mr. Miyagi. Because I had a slightly homoerotic strange relationship with you where we weren’t “doing it” and yet everyone was always saying behind our backs “yeah, they’re definitely doing it.” But also because you also taught me the special skills of how to “wax on” but more importantly the extremely useful skill of how to “wax off.” To use one more analogy, I am the Robin to your Batman, again because of the awkwardly semi romantic homoerotic behavior they portrayed… well, you can see where this is going.

I owe you a bit of gratitude for showing me some basic skills in life. Three to be exact. Which go as follows:

1) You taught me patience. After several years of waiting for you to like me, I learned that all good things come to those who wait. Not great things like us dating or you admitting to people in public that we knew each other, but good things like that time I walked in on you changing accidentally. Oh who are we kidding? We both know you left the door unlocked on purpose!

2) You gave me the gift of persistence. You showed me that if I kept trying, that great things would happen. After the many attempts I made of grazing the outer edge of your boob and making it look like an accident, you showed me that trying pays off that time you finally rewarded me by getting really drunk and making out with my older brother. I mean, he is blood related so technically you were attracted to my genetics. At least, you had the decency to keep it “in the family.”

3) You showed me compassion. Not for you. But for my fellow man. More specifically, my fellow high schooler friend, Jeffrey, who also was being cock blocked by your scrutinous and unyielding friendship barrier. That compassion for all mankind led me to do some great and altruistic things, none of which I can remember off the top of my head.

Well that’s all. Oh wait, I guess there was one more lesson I learned which was how to masturbate quietly while crying but I don’t know if that’s really a life lesson. Although, it often comes in handy. No pun intended.

So thank you Jenny. And if by any chance you are slightly interested in taking our old friendship to the next level (and lifting that restraining order,) let’s do it! Let’s give it a shot. Let’s fall in love.

Sincerely,

Jonathan Thompson

View Comments / Jun 27.10 / Just Friends / by Chris Stephens

// On “reality”.

By Ben Cheney .
06.24.10 // Just Friends

And who uses the “let’s just be friends” line anyway?  I’ve broken several hearts and had mine shattered a few times, but I’ve never heard those words in my life, save for in a movie or television programme.

View Comments / Jun 24.10 / Just Friends / by Ben Cheney

// I miss you M.

By Talia Ledner .
06.22.10 // Just Friends

You are comfort and surprise.

You are a compilation of beautiful flaws and a broad, honest smile.

I love your scars

your ugly car

your skillfully disheveled music collection.

I love your eccentricities and your little aerobic ticks.

You are my favorite asshole.

We are just friends

and it is perfect.

View Comments / Jun 22.10 / Just Friends / by Talia Ledner