Twenty Odd or Incongruous Items (or Collections of Items) found in a coworker's Cubicle

They moved me to a new cubicle this week. Instead of altering and editing mysterious reports and analyzing mutual funds, I am now assisting actuaries in another part of the building. I will do this work for one week. It's pretty dull, except for my richly decorated immediate surroundings. Here are twenty items I found in my cubicle:

1. Untitled Christian inspirational message

This four-paragraph screed alludes casually (in navy blue Comic Sans 12-point) to the reader's "enemies", "agonies", and, in one memorable line, "sufferings sorrows and pains [sic]". How can such a downbeat message be affirmative enough to warrant daily contemplation?

2. Untitled congratulatory certificate

The company president's signature is reproduced at the bottom of this longish ivory-colored certificate. The text (Lucida Calligraphy, 12-point in tan) alludes to "loyalty, dedication and contributions" but fails to mention any specific event or achievements. A psychedelic-looking clock is printed in the background.

3. "Certificate of Appreciation in the Category of: Disney Cast Members"

This certificate reads: "[Name] WINS THE Tigger AWARD FOR ACHIEVEMENT IN: Organizing data and information, it's a wonderful thing!" in five different fonts. Printed above the text are two illustrations of Milne's extraordinarily popular tiger. Apparently someone in the certificate-printing division of my employer's Human Resource department intended this certificate for babies, or perhaps very slow adults.

4. "Certificate of Completion"

The Certificate of Completion is Spartan. A small clip-art illustration is printed above the bearer's name [this is MY certificate!] and the words "has completed the Project Management Foundations Training" are printed in reserved, almost dignified olive green 18-point Arial. Presumably, the training was mandatory.

5. Photo of four black ladies

Relatives?

6. Various photos of children

Or perhaps photos of various children? All the children appear happy.

7. Various lotions, perfume samples, and a lint remover

The items are stacked on a small shelf.

8. "Just Beautiful!!" poem

What makes me weak? My fears.
What makes me whole? My God.
What keeps me standing? My faith.
What makes me compassionate? My selflessness.
What makes me honest? My integrity.
What sustains my mind? My quest for knowledge.
What teaches me all lessons? My mistakes.
What lift's [sic] my head high? My pride, not arrogance.
What if I can't go on? Not an option.
What makes me victorious? My courage to climb.
What makes me competent? My confidence.
What makes me sensual? My insatiable essence.
What makes me beautiful? My everything.
What makes me a woman? My heart. [!]
Who says I need love? I do.
What empowers me? My God & Me. [sic]
What am I? I AM AN AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN.

9. "The Seven Dwarves of Menopause" printout

The word "menopause" has been struck through in red pen and replaced with the letters "PMS" in the title of this printout. Presumably, my co-worker will update it in a few years. A picture of Disney's beloved Seven Dwarves is accompanied in this printout by the legend "Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful & Psycho." The serial comma is thoughtlessly omitted, advancing the possibility of an unnamed Dwarf. Naturally, this sort of whimsy is printed in navy blue 12-point Comic Sans.

10. "TO MY SISTERS IN THE LORD…" poem

This poem is noteworthy only for the line "Before you wonder 'What's up with her?' ask yourself, 'What's up with me?'" The text is printed in black 12-point Times New Roman.

11. "Psalm 23 (For the Work Place)" printout

This inspiring bit of 12-point Comic Sans sacrilege begs to be reproduced in full:

The Lord is my boss, and I shall not want.
He gives me peace, when chaos is all around me.
He reminds me to pray, before I speak in anger.
He restores my sanity.
He guides my decisions that I might honor Him in all I do.
Even though I face absurd amounts of e-mail, system failures, copier jams, back-ordered supplies, unrealistic deadlines, staff shortages, budget cutbacks, red tape, downsizing, gossiping co-workers and whining customers, I won't give up, for You are with me. [Note the pronoun shift.]
Your presence, peace and power will see me through.
You raise me up, even when the boss fails to promote me. [I thought He was the boss.]
You claim me as your own, even when the company threatens to let me go.
Your loyalty and love are better than a bonus check.
Your retirement plans beats any 401K [sic], and when it's all said
and done, I'll be working for [Y]ou a whole lot longer!
Thanks be to God!

An accompanying (and severely pixilated) illustration depicts a light-skinned black woman with short braids and enormous gold hoops in her ear.

12. "PRAYER BEFORE STARTING WORK" printout

Stern 12-point Times New Roman printing in red and blue asks the Lord to "anoint [the reader's] projects, ideas, and energy" in this touching prayer.

13. Untitled navy blue 12-point Comic Sans inspirational message

Numerous sailing and soaring metaphors populate the text of this message.

14. "READ THE FIRST LINE CAREFULLY" poem

This seven-line poem begins with the words "READ THE FIRST LINE CAREFULLY", Epimenides be damned. It closely follows "Just Beautiful!!"'s question and answer format save for the logically confounding first line. The font is 12-point Times New Roman, in black with pink highlighting.

15. Small mirror

A small mirror hangs on a plastic hook next to the computer monitor in this cubicle. I repositioned it so I can see if anyone is sneaking up on me.

16. Numerous office supplies and folders

There are office supplies and folders everywhere in this cubicle, but they are most concentrated on the far right of the desk. All the folders are hand-labeled, and some appear quite old. All are utterly incomprehensible to me. The office supplies include "Wite-Out", scissors, and a giant eraser.

17. Small boombox

The office is eerily silent all day save for muted conversations and clicking keys. I've never heard ANYONE use a boombox, or even computer speakers. The boombox is an older cassette-only model.

18. Anne Geddes calendar

March's photo depicts little black babies peeking out of tulip blossoms. All wear shower caps.

19. Fortune cookie fortune

"KEEP YOUR EXPECTATIONS REASONABLE".

20. Empty bottle of Prozac

The label reads "DANIEL W. WILLIAMS: TAKE TWO CAPSULES EVERY MORNING WITH FOOD FOR DEPRESSION, ANXIETY"

Remove me from you list!

I really walked into a shitstorm today. They moved me again at work, so now I'm filling in for a nice woman who left last weekend for Iowa. When I sat down this morning to check this lady's email I discovered over one hundred unread messages! (That's the shitstorm. Exciting, huh?) Apparently someone at Risingproducts.com created an email distribution list (subscribers3@risingproducts.com) filled with random email addresses (including my coworker's) and used it to send a newsletter. One of the addressees responded to this letter asking to be unsubscribed and his response went to everyone on the list. The people who got it went nuts and responded that THEY hadn't sent him any emails, and then THESE responses went to everyone on the list, prompting further denial and confusion. None of these people can figure out why they're getting hostile email, but every letter they write to subscribers3@risingproducts.com is redistributed to the list. Since none of these people have the grade-school sophistication to use a heading or salutation of any kind in their letters, the recipients all interpret the generic complaints as being directed at them personally. I wanted to get involved, but I'm not, uh, retarded.

I realize this is probably incredibly boring to the vast majority of people, but I find the range of responses this situation generated to be profound and interesting. People react to this misunderstanding in many different ways. Some get angry:

did you fix the problem doesn't seem like it so get it done i am sick of the damn email so fix this shit now (luvburns2001@yahoo.com)

Whoever you people are, stop sending me bogus emails say your on my list! You are not! STOP WRITING ME ASAP!!!!!!!! (marie_9440@yahoo.com)

Some make idle threats:

If I continue to receive messages from others I have no affiliations with I will make sure that your company will be reported to the ip server connected to you site. Or worse...make sure that your computers be shut down permanently. (martin9446@sbcglobal.net)

You have hacked into my email and used me as a way of "spaming" others. You better get this fixed ASAP or I will be contacting my lawyer later this evening. What you are doing is considered fraud and will be handled accordingly! I have your name/address and other important info to report to the authorities. You better get this cleared up soon! (mariegilbertson@yahoo.com)

people are asking to be un subscribed and i dont know how they got my email address, if the messages dont stop u will have a lawsuit on ur hands, guarenteed. (marcella_devincent17@yahoo.com)

Some are confused:

seems like a lot of problems surfaced since i seen this email address: subscribers3@risingproducts.com. first of all who are you and what do you want? (mactopolis@yahoo.com) [Try reasoning with it!]

We are not sending these either. I do not even knowhow they have our address. If you find out how to get these people off your list, please let me know. We have small children!! (madbil1@cox.net)

And some logically confounding:

DELETE ME KNOW! (mantolson@reinbeck.net)

your e males are messing up in my box! (matsukes@yahoo.com)

It's as if these people HAVE to write back, like they're compelled to do it. The emails would stop if they'd just stop responding to each other! It's funny to me how technology kind of leaves people behind; these goofballs are treating these messages like crank calls, and trying to give the "spammer" a piece of their minds. They just can't grasp that their reactions are the same as screaming at a pile of junk mail.

Like I wrote earlier, I know its totally boring, but I love reading this stuff. I wish I could devote all day to these modern predicaments and write about them them my leisure, rather than when no one is looking. Really and truly.

I am thankful

I got another great email forward today. Here it is, with comments:

I AM THANKFUL:

FOR THE HUSBAND
WHO IS ON THE SOFA
BEING A COUCH POTATO,
BECAUSE HE IS HOME WITH ME
AND NOT OUT AT THE BARS.

Have people been forwarding this thing since the forties? Discounting fictional characters (like Homer Simpson and Andy Capp) and bartenders, I don't know of any men who spend every night in a bar, particularly married men. Granted, I don't know any actual BUMS, but still, despite watching five hours of TV a night, even I can't fathom enduring the tedium and inanity of spending every night in bar.

FOR THE TEENAGER
WHO IS COMPLAINING ABOUT DOING DISHES
BECAUSE IT MEANS SHE IS AT HOME,
NOT ON THE STREETS.

Do that many teenagers end up "on the streets?" Is it really a serious enough problem to warrant this line of reasoning? This seems a lot like being thankful for NOT getting struck by lightning. I assume the passage refers to being on the streets permanently, like teenaged prostitutes or runaways, because it seems kind of stupid for a parent to not want his child outside at least some of the time, unless they're attempting to raise a shut-in.

FOR THE TAXES I PAY
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I AM EMPLOYED .

Yeah, well, I can see ACCEPTING taxes as a consequence of working, but actually being thankful for them seems a bit much. I usually want MORE of the things I'm thankful for; if there was a tax rise, would the person who wrote this be more grateful yet? And is having a job really something to be that thankful for? How about being unemployed and not caring?

FOR THE MESS TO CLEAN AFTER A PARTY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE
BEEN SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS.

I've thrown a few parties, and it usually seemed like any messes I cleaned were the products of various nerds and dickheads that just showed up, rather than my friends. But what do I know? I don't clean ANYTHING!

FOR MY SHADOW THAT WATCHES ME WORK
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I AM OUT IN THE SUNSHINE

See, I'm grateful for not being a day-laborer.

FOR A LAWN THAT NEEDS MOWING,
WINDOWS THAT NEED CLEANING,
AND GUTTERS THAT NEED FIXING
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE A HOME .

Again, I don't care about any of that shit. The gutters fell off my old house into the waist-high lawn, but I didn't notice since the windows were so filthy. These are bourgeois concerns. Besides, who doesn't have at least some sort of dwelling? Even BUMS have tents and boxes. Should they be grateful for their leaky cardboard roofs and battered tarps? At what point is it okay for a person to stop being grateful and become resentful, jealous, or irate?

FOR ALL THE COMPLAINING
I HEAR ABOUT THE GOVERNMENT
BECAUSE IT MEANS
WE HAVE FREEDOM OF SPEECH.

Yeah, not to be a stickler, but "freedom" and "rights" refer to things that everyone has. That's the whole point of the Constitution, Declaration of Independence, Bill of Rights, &c. Everyone is born with total freedom of expression. Mathmatically, governments can ONLY limit this right; it's impossible to grant or expand an inherently unlimited freedom. There's nothing whatsoever to be grateful for. The person who wrote this needs to take a fucking civics class. Is she also grateful to the government for NOT killing her or for NOT seizing her property for no good reason?

FOR THE PARKING SPOT
I FIND AT THE FAR END OF THE PARKING LOT
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM CAPABLE OF WALKING
AND I HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH TRANSPORTATION .

This is really stupid.

FOR MY HUGE HEATING BILL
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I AM WARM.

Not necessarily. It's perfectly possible that if oil prices continue to rise, a huge heating bill might not represent a warm house, but simply an inhabitable one. Keeping the temperate JUST high enough to prevent the pipes from bursting could be a pretty expensive venture in a few years. Will the author be grateful for that, because it means her pipes won't burst? If they do, will she be grateful for scrap copper piping to sell? When does it end?

FOR THE LADY BEHIND ME IN CHURCH
WHO SINGS OFF KEY
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I CAN HEAR.

I'm grateful I don't go to church.

FOR THE PILE OF LAUNDRY AND IRONING
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I HAVE CLOTHES TO WEAR.

Again, not neccesarily. An unsuccessful maid or drycleaner could have a huge pile of clothes to wash and iron and still not have a sufficient amount of clothes for herself. Sweatshop workers (boo hoo!) often toil over enormous piles of clothes while themselves wearing rags. Would this inspirational passage apply to them? (I suppose the author thinks they should be grateful for having jobs.)

FOR WEARINESS AND ACHING MUSCLES
AT THE END OF THE DAY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE BEEN
CAPABLE OF WORKING HARD.

Fucking ridiculous. Rather than sitting around being grateful for everything, why doesn't this joker get a better job? And what's so great about "[having been] capable of working hard"? Crippled horses and most dead bodies were at one point capable of such work, too.

FOR THE ALARM THAT GOES OFF
IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM ALIVE.

This is a bit of a fucking stretch. Unless this shit was written by a ghost, pretty much any observation would indicate that the observer is alive. I mean, really! It's like saying, "I'm grateful for involuntary muscle spasms in response to reflexive stimuli, because they mean I'm alive". And why pin that grateful-to-be-alive shit to something horrible, like waking up early? Plus, what if being a ghost is better than living? Then it would be stupid to be grateful to be alive.

AND FINALLY, FOR TOO MUCH E-MAIL
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE
FRIENDS WHO ARE THINKING OF ME.

Finally, more fallacious reasoning. Great. More email usually means more "offers" from places craven enough to send spam to people foolish enough to sign up for their lists. I bet the people who got mixed up with subscribers3@Risingproducts.com aren't so fucking thankful for email.

SEND THIS TO SOMEONE YOU CARE ABOUT. I JUST DID.

Live well, Laugh often, & Love with all of your heart!

Good old work. I learn something new every day.

Black Kids I Knew

I remember a lot of great black kids from junior high school; some were menacing toughs, others garrulous clowns. Their clothes and mannerisms inspired much emulation, and the strange argot they adopted from God-knows-where peppered many fine conversations with phrases like "Oh, Lawd", "cuttin' up?", and "bobos, they make your feet feel fine". I'll never forget their chatter. Naturally, my people and I were subject to a fair amount of scorn from these children, but everybody's somebody's laughingstock, so I hardly resent them for it. Besides, being called "King of the Headbangers" has a certain cachet, and I wish people would call me that now. What happened to these guys?

As nostalgic as I am for their name-calling and antics, the thing I miss most about these junior high black kids is hearing their names… Franco Anderson, Demetrius "Meatball" Jackson, Soso Dede (!), Alfred "Buddy" Padgett… Where are they now? A MySpace search, as you can easily imagine, is difficult: Franco locked his profile, there are dozens of Demetria, &c. I'd love to know where they are, though, and if they suffer like I do, or in different, inconceivable ways.

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT: BUTT-FUCKING

Three Great Simulated Gangsta Rap Sex Scenes

This article was originally published as "The Negro Speaks of Sodomy" (after Langston Hughes) in The Atlantic monthly.

Simulated sex is part of our culture. We routinely watch actors and actresses pretending to fuck each other on television and in the movies, and if we're lucky we see some nudity while we're at it. Nowadays, even the tamest entertainment features simulated sex, from Brazilian sexpot and educator Xuxa's scenes with a twelve-year-old boy to prime time television programs featuring the infamous "sock." So-called "gangsta" rap--arguably the best kind--is no exception: there's simulated sex in it. I present here my three favorite simulated sex scenes in rap music:

"The Pimp"
Mr. Scarface
Mr. Scarface is Back

Mr. Scarface Outdoes Himself might have been a more apt title for this recently back-in-print masterpiece, as it remains, despite seemingly countless follow-ups, Scarface's greatest solo achievement. Crucial songs like "I'm Dead," "Your Ass Got Took," and the inexplicably-titled "Good Girl Gone Bad" (not about a girl) affirm MSIB's standing amongst its contemporaries, Little Big Man (Bushwick Bill) and Controversy (Willie D), both of which are awesome. However, even on an album filled with excellent tracks, "The Pimp" stands alone in poignancy and relevance; it surpasses the listener's expectations and leaves him disoriented in an emotional dumpster of prurient sex-talk and cold-blooded hostility toward women that requires repeated listening to fully believe.

"The Pimp" reaches new lows. Mr. Scarface gleefully chortles his way through such lines as "Yeah, that's right: butt-fucking/then [ugh] a real good dick sucking," and unlike fellow Geto Boy Willie D, whose lighthearted "Pussy" provides a sort of paradigm of genial misogyny, Mr. Scarface comes across as being totally serious, even humorless, despite his jocose delivery. With this in mind, it is easy to imagine the impact of such lines, delivered almost conversationally, as "loosen up and it won't hurt so bad," referring to anal intercourse.

As in similar songs, "The Pimp" features a woman performing what could perhaps be called backing vocals while the principal performer raps over her moderately realistic panting and whinnying. The simulated sex heard in "The Pimp," however, is unusual in that, unlike as in most other examples from the genre, the male participant (presumably Mr. Scarface himself) is clearly audible: deep, masculine groans continue through the latter half of the song, while Mr. Scarface makes repetitive and largely unimpressive claims like "my next-door neighbors even heard her" and talks about his dick more than a high-school athlete. One wonders if the afore-mentioned neighbors (who probably hear regular things, like Scarface's TV, through the presumably wafer-thin walls of his Fifth Ward tenement) were as put-off as I was upon hearing his passionate cries. He sounds like Conan the Barbarian, and the noises in "The Pimp" are more like something one would expect to hear at the zoo than in the bedroom. I once knew a girl who said she and her boyfriend "fucked like black people." I certainly hope she didn't mean this.

"Suck Down" and "Get a Lil Head"
Mack 10 featuring Boo Kapone, Techniec, Binky, and CJ Mack*
The Recipe

The Recipe is, by any account, an abysmal album. Despite his apprenticeship with Ice Cube, Mack 10 has been responsible for some of the worst, least imaginative raps I've ever heard, and The Recipe is no exception. Over the course of eighteen tracks, Mack's adolescent boasting and standoffish, meaningless threats alternately bore and annoy the listener enough to essentially eliminate the possibility of listening all the way through. I assume this music is played in hell. That said, tracks seven and eight ("Suck Down" and "Get a Lil Head," respectively), provide a welcome respite from Mack's dubious criminal posturing by describing how much he and the guys (the, ahem, "Hoobangin' Affiliates") like getting their dicks sucked. Are the songs meant to satisfy listeners' curiosity? At any rate, the two are companion pieces, with the former serving as a sort of object lesson to illustrate the principles expounded upon in the latter.

"Suck Down" is an "insert" or skit, which (to those unfamiliar with this sort of thing) means it lasts only twenty-seconds and doesn't feature any music. The track begins with sucking noises and Mack urging his "bitch," whose mouth is obviously too full to respond, to "put that shit all the way in." Mack then proceeds to compliment her technique and make a series of strange, warbling noises. Is this the mating cry of the self-described "Chicken Hawk"? "Get a Lil Head" begins immediately after "Suck Down" and allows each of the Affiliates a chance to elaborate on his love of fellatio. Don't expect any surprises--no one speaks against the practice or says he's "more into guys."

Mack 10's fumbling, amateurish delivery elevates the sex-noises heard on "Suck Down" and "Get a Lil Head" above more mediocre examples by providing a unique, trembling quality similar to a nine-year-old's account of a bogus sexual experience. The songs are so hypersexual it seems doubtful anyone, even the Hoobangin' Affiliates (who clearly appreciate the absurd) could take them seriously. "Get a Lil Head" ends with Mack feverishly demanding the fellator (who is never named) to "suck Binky's dick, suck Eiht's dick, suck Techniec's dick..." until, presumably, the whole posse is satisfied. For what it's worth, Mack is usually good for a quick laugh or two, but why does Ice Cube spend so much time with this pervert?

"Fuck Westside Connection" (or "Ice Cube Killa")
Cypress Hill
Unreleased

Okay, so apparently B-Real and Ice Cube used to be friends, but after listening to a "Throw Your Set in the Air" demo by Cypress Hill, Cube allegedly stole the hook and produced a similar song of his own. Naturally, B-Real made a song about the theft, which prompted Ice Cube's Westside Connection to record TWO songs in response to that ("King of the Hill" and "Cross Em Out and Put a K," on Bow Down) filled with rambling and incoherent disses. "Fuck Westside Connection" is Cypress Hill's response to Westside Connection** and never officially saw release, but can easily be found on MP3 trading servers. It features simulated homosexual sounds.

"Fuck Westside Connection" is cerebral stuff. Most of the song is simply B-Real and Sen Dog wheedling and cajoling Ice Cube and Mack 10 to suck their dicks, calling them "faggots" (the double-standard goes unmentioned), and talking about being really tough guys. Eventually, a simulated Mack 10 fellates a real B-Real, and their homoerotic affair is recorded for posterity.

The encounter begins with B-Real impatiently demanding that Mack 10 "start to sucking," which he does. Cypress Hill's friends, who can be heard carrying on in the background, eagerly await their own "suck down" and shout things like "save some for me, esé" (because they're, you know, Spanish) and "save some for me, dog!" The sucking goes on for a while. Thankfully, B-Real's orgasm is merely implied, as it is difficult to imagine a situation in which his high-pitched moans would be palatable. Sex noises aside, the most interesting aspect of this recording is B-Real's homies insisting he "save some for [them]" as if the quantity of simulated dick-sucks available was limited by anything other than their imaginations and the patience of the recording engineer, who must have been tickled pink by this seldom-heard gem.

*This shit was KILLING my spellchecker.
**The girlishness continued to the EDITED version of Bow Down sold in K-Mart, in which a post-post production Mack 10 responds to "Fuck Westside Connection" in language shockingly free of oaths.

Damage, Inc.

We chew and spit you out
we laugh, you scream and shout
All flee, with fear you run
You'll know just where we come from
Damage Incorporated

So what on earth is Damage, Inc.?

If the abbreviation at the end of its name is to be believed, Damage, Inc. is a business of some kind. According to the song's lyrics, the business hurts people, and apparently, its founders incorporated at some point, affording Damage, Inc. certain legal and tax advantages. This doesn't bode well for the rest of us. But what does Damage, Inc. REALLY do? To whom do they do it? How do they make a profit? Who signs the paychecks at the organization, handles its pension plan, and does the hiring? To find out, I went to the internet.

The first link I found directs to the website for a Metallica tribute band called Damage, Inc. I can't say with any real certainty, but something tells me they didn't actually incorporate with the state of California. It does make for a humorous vision, though: I picture four mangy headbangers standing before a judge, scratching their fleas and routing the motor oil out of their nailbeds with a book of matches while explaining what, precisely, Damage (as it would have, at that time, been called) does. "[We] all contribute certain styles that capture a mix of classic Metallica, with the energy and intensity similar to one of their live performances" is how they attempt to explain themselves on the website. Huh. One would think a single style--classic Metallica's--would be sufficient to capture the style of one of the most (if not THE most) stylistically distinctive heavy metal bands of the eighties. But what do I know? Judging by the FREQUENT use of the dubiously-spelt "ryhtym" on the site's biography section, one of us (me or the site's primary author) is stylistically crippled. It could be me, right? I do wonder through, how the band mixes Metallica with the "energy and intensity" of Metallica. Following my study of the Damage, Inc. website, I can safely conclude that Chris Knight, Chris Brightwell, Kevin Knight, and Boyd Machtolff are a Damage, Inc., but not the Damage, Inc. referred to in the song. (It does, naturally, seem unlikely that Metallica would write a song in praise of a tribute band that did not, at the time, exist.)

Since I work for investment consultants (businesspeople) I am able to call upon my faculties as a business researcher. I looked to Yahoo! finance to find out if Damage, Inc. stock was publicly traded on any exchange. I didn't find anything. Perhaps they recently succumbed to takeover by a private equity firm, and are no longer publicly owned, but it must have been a clandestine process. You can't buy stock in Damage, Inc. You CAN, however, buy the following stocks on the international market:

METALLICA FPO (MLM.AX)
METALLICA MINERALS (MM4.BE)
METALLICA RES WT I (MRBWF.PK)
METALLICA RESOURCES (164648.F)
Metallica Resources Inc. (MRBA)
METALLICA RESOURCES (MRW.DE)
METALLICA RESOURCES (MRW.BE)
METALLICA RESOURCES INC (MR.TO)

Unfortunately, none of these are actually Metallica, at least not in the sense I understand it. I contacted Metallica Resources, Inc. about Damage, Inc., but they didn't know anything.

So what is Damage, Inc.? I guess you can say I don't know. But whatever they are, I hope to avoid them. I'd hate to end up in their presence, screaming and shouting while they laugh, always laughing, endlessly laughing. However... Assuming Damage, Inc. ISN'T real, I'm once again scratching my head about James Hetfield and the things he chooses to say in lyrics consumed and pondered by millions of fans worldwide. "We laugh, you scream and shout." Party on, Garth.

-----

From Wikipedia:

The lyrical matter deals with the conformity and trends in music, or possibly that of an armed military acting as a blindly cohesive unit, unable and unwilling to acknowledge any destruction they cause, not unlike the subject matter of No Remorse. Interestingly, the lines "Fuck it all and fucking no regrets; Never happy endings on these dark sets," are nearly re-used in exact form on the song "St. Anger".

I wish I could see the guy who wrote this. He's probably a corporate trainer for Intel or Starbucks*. Seriously, "not unlike"? "Lyrical matter"? "Blindly cohesive"? "Armed military"? I particularly like the faux-academic silliness of "unable and unwilling to...", as if--somewhere out there, right now--Damage, Inc. is REAL. I can practically hear the dude's Beavis and Butthead internal monolog lisping those words as he wrote them. And how is Metallica's tendency to self-plagiarize "interesting"? Why didn't this joker simply say the lyrics were reused or paraphrased, rather than adding the non-sequitur "nearly...in exact form"? Does he mean to imply the lyrics to "St. Anger" read like "...never happily ending on these darker sets," after having been switched in form from adjective to adverb, noun to gerund, and so forth?

*Well, in all likelihood he's a chronic masturbator and candy-bar junkie who can't work because of his panic attacks, but that's relatively unimportant.

Dramatis Personae

I'm tired of dealing with the insane. I don't get paid enough to spend all week stuck in a big stupid room with a bunch of crazy people. I once found these idiots amusing but now they just disgust and terrify me. I've been robbed, I've dealt with piss and "kiddie" porn, I know half the hicks who come here by name… What the fuck? From now on I just want to deal with normal, reasonable people. I no longer want to see these people:

Frank Weller claims to work for the post office, and does occasionally write crackpot letters to the Postmaster General. He favors bold typefaces and capitalizes more words and phrases than I do. I've known him for years. He comes in here EVERY SINGLE NIGHT to use eBay. He bids exclusively on vintage vacuum cleaners and ultra rare size 6E tennis shoes. Often he prays or screams when he wins an auction. He is prone to asking unusual questions at odd times like: "Do my ankles look swollen?" "Do you think this coat is waterproof?" or "What would you do if your car got stuck in the snow?" He carries a dog-eared bible and a box of tissues wherever he goes. I have seen him at Thriftworld and the Arlington Flea Market. He does not recognize me outside of work. His attitude toward me alternates between chatty and condescending.

Daniel Kellogg wrote a poem in 1981 called "Weapons of War" to mourn his hero Jimmy Carter's failed run for President. He is now reproducing this poem in an effort to halt global warming, overpopulation, and war. The poem reads like the lyric sheet to the world's stupidest anarcho-crust album. I've reproduced a bit below (all grammatical errors are, or course, [sic]):

from "Weapons of War":

Will I die or will I live?
Shall we too pursue a role
to have more weapons as our goal?
Shall we make so many and be so greedy
that we'll starve the hungry
and cheat the needy?

As you can easily imagine it goes WAY on from there with little variation on the central theme, "Be Excellent to Each Other". Mr. Kellogg is extremely chatty.

Doctor Doris and I have known each other for years. She is homeless and insane. She sings, talks to herself, harasses the customers, and does all that other shit crazy people do. I neither like nor dislike her. She stinks and has the fattest arms I've ever seen discounting television shows about shut-ins. She carries mountains of paper wherever she goes and never leaves her "desk" without preparing a note to hold her place. They typically read as follows:

Doctor Doris is occupying this desk. This desk is occupied. The doctor is IN.

Several days ago she told me to "take it up with the NAACP" when I asked if she had a radio. Also, I once tried to help her apply online to manage the store in which we both spend our evenings. She typed, deleted, and retyped her name for half an hour. It cost her six dollars to rent the computer. She never speaks to me unless spoken to. She responds entirely in non sequiturs.

I do not know the Mailman's real name. He's been coming here for years. He is a little brown man with pop-bottle glasses, grey hair, and a childishly high-pitched voice. He wears a filthy postman's uniform and drives an antique station wagon. He has, at various times, brought me cans of cashews, frozen diet dinners, candy, and soda to drink. He is mentally retarded and takes copious notes on every subject. He frequently dances while he copies. Music he particularly likes will drive him to feverish dancing which alienates all onlookers. He is REALLY talkative but has difficulty following even the most simple conversation.

Catherine Millard is a one-million-year-old South African who thinks I speak Greek and am a Satanist. She is an evangelical Christian and so afraid of me she shrinks away in terror when I get near her. She no longer visits at night since the "devil's music" disables her thinking. The last night she came around I was listening to the fucking Smiths and she held her hands over her ears. Needless to say we do not speak to each other.

Mysterious bearded Arabs, wildly gesticulating Asians, Hispanics both rowdy and reserved, and pushy, overzealous Africans all visit nightly. These third-worlders need steady help and constant reassurance to use any machine more complicated than a lever or inclined plane. At least once a night I help one of these wonderful visitors complete some inexplicable errand: copying strange documents with otherworldly designs and weird, old-timey seals; faxing crudely Xeroxed passports and green cards to Korea or the United Arab Emirates, giving directions to Wal-Mart and the highway… No language barriers or common sense inhibit our interactions. I generally try to avoid all conversation beyond the practical, but am occasionally drawn into confounding, one-sided exchanges about tattoos or my odd schedule. For the most part I am able to steer clear of these nuisances.

Perot is banned for life. He pissed all over the carpet and I believe I've covered this elsewhere. If memory serves, I have also discussed Scar Kid (Perot's arch-enemy) and "All Life is Agony", two rare homeless. Other notable, but rare, homeless include: Golden Gate Screamer, Devil-eyes, and Blood-soaked Drunk. I don't know these peoples' real names, and they visit so rarely I don't think of them as recurring problems. Strangely, these are all ACTUAL PEOPLE, endowed presumably with the same kind of soul as you or me. I think for the most part they all eventually hurt somebody and the state takes them away.

I like to think I endure, rather than hate these people.