Lesson of the Day

Pudding makes everything better.

R.I.P. Smarties

This farewell shout-out is to commemorate the wonderful life and death of the gigantor bag of Smarties who resided in Sleepy Ferret’s desk. You were practically indestructible and we will look back on all of our times together, fondly. The way you helped us curb our appetites, fed our sugar rush, and added joy to any drab day, kept us in good spirits. You will leave quite a gap here. We will always remember you for your quantity and generosity, and how much you hurt when you were chucked across that room and hit someone on the back of the head. And although you may be replaced with lifesavers or airheads, you will always have a special place in our hearts.

Ladies and Gentleman - A Moment of Silence...

They've been with us for so long now that I feel a huge sense of loss at their seemingly sudden disappearance. They brought such light and joy to all of us artists in our times of helplessness...and low blood sugar...

So I ask for a moment of silence to remember the reds, yellows, blues (and many others) of our beloved friends...

For today...

The smarties have seen their last art room appearance.

::silence::

::sniffle::

Welcome to Poetry Corner

It's Friday and as I sit here and reflect on the week I begin to think of a few things that have inspired me along the way.
So I leave you with this... a little source of inspiration for when you hit the wall and need a little extra boost.


I like big butts and I can not lie.
You other brothers can't deny.
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung.
Wanna pull out your tough cause you notice that butt was stuffed.
Deep in the jeans she's wearing,
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring.
Oh baby, I wanna get wit'cha and take your picture.
My homeboys tried to warn me,
but with that butt you got makes me feel so horny.

Ooh, Rump-o'-smooth-skin
You say you wanna get in my Benz?
Well, use me, use me
'Cause you ain't that average groupy.
I've seen them dancin'. The hell with romancin'.
She's sweat, wet, got it going like a turbo 'Vette.
I'm tired of magazines saying flat butts are the thing.
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back
So, fellas! (Yeah!) Fellas! (Yeah!)
Has your girlfriend got the butt? (Hell yeah.)
Tell 'em to shake it. (Shake it.) Shake it. (Shake it.)
Shake that healthy butt.
Baby got back.

Sometimes 'au natural' is not a fun thing.

So there used to be a guy named Donald. Donald posed nude. For art. Donald was a little creepy. He wasn't the best male model, but he wasn't the worst (thats another story, for another time.) While drawing him, he would often stare at the unfortunate student facing his front. Making the whole experience quite uncomfortable. His stare was almost that of a serial killer or an axe murderer--trying to read the eyes of their next victim; inflicting panic and uneasiness when eye contact connected. It was only when he was nude and vulnerable that the class received this creepy vibe, for when he had a robe on during breaks, his demeanor was pleasant and sociable. No one blamed him for this. But then again, no one knew his deep dark horrible secret. During the winter months all the students would draw Donald and not complain so much because we understood that it was cold and he was quite a brave soul for exposing himself in such conditions. In the summer, however things changed. The rooms, being on the third floor, became hot and uncomfortable, with no ventilation except for a few operational windows located nowhere near the model stands. It was sometime in my sophomore spring semester that we students discovered the dark dark truth about Donald.

Donald did not believe.. in deodorant.

If anyone out there is looking for a good way to end a murder mystery novel--this sad unfortunate situation would be a perfect candidate ending. The room is enclosed and about 90º. No ventilation, no movement of the air whatsoever. Until Donald walks into the room, gets undressed and poses. Each and every student at that time sensed the disturbance of the air in the room, but all too late. The wall of smell hit their nostrils like a brick wall. Yes, unpleasant. But unavoidable? No.

Funny as I recalled this story, I couldn't help but think of how our little room here is scarily similar to that cubicle of a nude drawing room; no windows and no access to outside air. Sometimes stifling with all the heat produced by the computers running 24/7. So, listen friends.. be kind. Wear deodorant. Death-by-intoxication is not fun.

My kingdom for some fresh air!

So every day, between Monday and Friday, I sit here for 7 .5 hours and stare at a screen.. all the while, an enemy sits above me. I call him Lord Vent of Bacteria (a.k.a. an air vent). Sounds ridiculous doesn't it? That a vent that seems to blow innocently on me should be such an enemy. Well it would be any ones, especially when you sit in a small room with no windows and no way to get any kind of fresh air. The only air that circulates in here comes from the air conditioner.. but really.. its only blowing out the air it takes in from here.

So what do we know about what these vents are pumping into this room.. Fungus?... maybe. Espestis?...a possibility. Bacteria?....most likely. Mold?..oh most definitely. Any time now I could suddenly keel over from the Black Lung. You start to notice things, people start sneezing more, a cold seems to last a month longer than normal, headaches occur more often..... not good signs. And it slowly dawns on me... I don't remember having allergies growing up or through high school or college.. and somehow within the first 6 months of working here.. I find myself allergy ridden. Bastards. Gotta love knowing that work makes you sick...literally.

WHY do we put up with the mess?

"Traffic"

The word sends shivers down my spine. Just the thought of wasting away my time stuck on the interstate, staring blankly into the rear end of the SUV in front of me, sometimes staring through that car into the endless row of ruby red break lights beyond...it's enough to ruin any day, suddenly and absolutely.

Have the construction contractors just not figured that working on the middle of the road during rush hour creates just a few problems? Are people THAT eager to get to work, to sit at that desk and drain their souls into meaningless work, that they really feel the need to drive 95mph down the highway, just to save 5 minutes on the highway to hell? Do we all REALLY all need to stare at the damaged vehicles on the side of the road, what do we expect...to suddenly see some form of physically damage we haven't seen the previous 100 times we were stuck in such a situation on the road?

Instead, we are forced by the need to travel to work, to join in a symphony of idling vehicles, talk radio and squeaking brakes. We sit like lemmings, in columns down the interstate, quietly waiting for our turn to move 5 feet further towards a job we’ve been contemplating quitting for 2 years, but haven’t found the motivation to rebuild our portfolios and retype our resumes. Pushing and shoving in a line of gasoline driven plastic and metal, to our inevitable mental demise at the hands of capitalism. We endure it all, simply because our culture suggests it as the means of happiness, of uniformity, the path to the American Dream.

In the beginning, God created work?

Today was the day, the day I truly lost my mind to this place. How can I possibly continue to consider myself sane in this crazy place. I feel institutionalized. Shouldn't they hand out straight jackets with these I.D. badges they hand out to us at the time of our hiring? What type of company do you work for when you have to warn the new employees to "Leave logic at the door"?

Ok... a little back story:

The authors of this page all work for a medium sized family owned company somewhere in America. We make up the entirety of the company's art department...and this is the result of placing all the company's creative individuals in one room. A room with contrasting multi-colored walls, a radio with no censorship, and a computer every eight feet. Based on the culture of the company, we tend to find ourselves on the outside looking into the insanity of this capitalist experiment, and all the personalities, bizarre corporate traditions, and illogical mental decisions that help to somehow ultimately make this company money by the end of the 4th quarter of each year (I haven't figured out quite how we do that part yet).

We all hail from college, each ingrained by professors with a vision of a fictional reality of the corporate world we were all destined to enter upon graduation. We all awoke on the day of our hire to the truly psychotic universe that is white collar America. As our mind's melt away under the strain of the work week, we seek vengeance on the hell we are forced to endure each weekday within these walls. This is our story, our dairy... our own personal reality TV show.