Round 2...The Trendlebaugh Way

Now that my worries are temporarily over, I'm feelin' brutal good. Maurice! is back for the second week of sessions and this time the nice folks from channel 7 news are here to cover him. Gee, I wonder who called? It's a joy to watch Maurice mincing around like a blessed faerie princess muling out his orders to his second assistant Floren. Floren the emu. Floren is a delightful bundle of neurotic tics. The type that talks through clenched teeth and cries while he masturbates. I bet he saves every precious little b.m. Maurice makes in a velvet lined golden box. Maurice! is so used to having his little ass kissed by his retarded entourage that he was more than a little put off by the un-fauning camera crew. They walked around him as if he didn't exist. One of the camermen I talked to, a flying squirrell named Geoff Callahan, said he always gets stuck with these "second string celebs" Geoff seems like the kinda guy that could hook you up with some killer weed if that was your thing. Maurice! is supposedly going to treat us to a dinner at a hibachi grill (a photo op if ever I saw one) and Geoff has been assigned to shoot it. I asked him if he could keep me out of frame and he said he's try and that he could always take me out in the editing room. Oh, and by the way, I HATE Hibachi grills. Todays session with Maurice! is called "What the Experts Don't Want You to Know" Oh good, so he's a conspiracy theory efficionado as well. Jesus.

Found her!!!

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Turn Off Your Mind Relax and Float Downstream

Well, the workshop went pretty much exactly like I thought it would. Lots of nodding and chin stroking from the boot lick brothers Brian and Troy. Courtney, the badger from accounting sat next to me in the back where we swapped doodles and notes. Maurice "inner child" Trendelbaugh sat on the edge of a table that was covered with...guess what. Books written by Maurice Trendelbaugh! Yesterday Troy tried to make everyone in the office buy a copy of "Priming the pump of your inner child" An oddly disturbing title with a picture of Maurice! in a diaper holding the keys to a ferrari in one hand and a wad of cash in the other while smoking a cigar. Stan said Troy couldn't make any of us buy the book. Troy said he could. We didn't. Whatcha gonna do about it company man? There was the predictable yammering about "paradigm shifts" and "thinking outside the box" and all the tiresome aphorisms and attendant woes that come with this sort of drivel. My opinion of Steve did go up a couple of notches when he said with a completely straight face. "My uncle thought outside the box once... He's dead now." Pure comedy gold. Maurice! was oblivious of course and was treating this repackaged '70s pop psychology like it was revolutionary. Lots of ambiguous categories and numbers. you know..."The 7 paths of the 3 modes of the 12 inferences...That kind of crap. Later on this week, we're doing something called guided imagery. Maybe I'll be able to skip out and guide myself down to PDQ Whistlestops for some nachos and brewskis. Uncle Paul likes this one Ajerbaijani lager called !KruK! Don't know if I'm brave enough.

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Maurice!

I'm going to wax poetic here for a moment.



Usually every family or genus has, what some of us call, a unique P.O.P. ..a point of pride. The giraffe has it's long elegant neck. The lark, it's song. The bat, exotic echolocation. The duck billed platypus, an oddish snout that transmits and recieves an electrical field that locates and stuns it's prey. And us elephants, well you can surely guess what our P.O.P is. You can joke about the weather. you can joke about sex. You can even joke about a guy's mom. (a touchier subject for us mammals than for others) but don't and NEVER mess with a fella's P.O.P. Period. Which brings me to Mr. Trendelbaugh...Maurice. The tarsier and pep talk guru who is here, in his own words, to Rock Our World. So he's making the rounds meeting everyone in this super fake friendly way. Troy and Brian are embarrassing themselves fauning over this fresh little steaming turd in an ascot and double breasted maroon blazer like he's Charles freakin' Nelson fraggin' Reilly. So this twit comes up to me and with his voice forced an octave lower than natural for his species, ala George takai. He has the gall to put out his hand and say, and I quote. "So what am I supposed to shake here big guy." I froze. Gee I don't know...champ. Beats me chief. Ya got me, tiger. What I'm hearing is California-over-easy-mellow and what I'm looking at is the face of a guy who ate a whole sheet of blotter acid and watched the surgery channel for 72 hours straight. The effect...cognitive dissonance. Bigtime. He's brought an entourage of five ass-kissing sycophants who delight in every fart and burp he makes. Oh, he came in a giant tour bus with "Maurice!" written in huge cursive letters on the side. My first session starts this afternoon. I can't wait.

Oh joy of joys. The HR department has commissioned one of those pep talk gurus to do a series of workshops to boost morale. You want morale? Pay a fucking living wage, that'll boost morale . This ass kissing feel-good stuff is so insulting. Pure kindergarten kitch. The guy who's coming is supposedly some mid tier Life-Coach type who makes a killing doing the corporate circuit. A tarsier nonetheless. I don't want to sound speciest but those little dudes freak me out big time. Brian and Troy are all in a tizzy over it. They've been strutting around and bragging how they share a more recent common ancestor with this Maurice Trendelbaugh than any of us non-primates. So Fucking What. I would not want to be anywhere near thoses things on the tree of life. Stay off my branch bitch is all I'm saying. We're supposed to get together in groups of five for a more personal brainwashing experience. Brian and Troy the Homo Sap are in the same session with me but they stuck Brad with the glue crew. The marsupials. A bandicoot, a sugar glider, and two wallabies. Too bad Brad and I won't be able to share our misery. monday can never be far enough away...

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