Last Migration from MySpace!

Saturday, March 01, 2008


All plans fail when they meet the enemy.

Or in this case, the facetious enemy.

So Stephen Colbert came by the office yesterday (picture posted to prove it, even though I've already received one commentary suggesting photoshop work). Interviewing the big boss of DPA, Ethan.

Naturally, in my mind, I've got some clever ish to say, to steal the show. Because I figure that fuckit, I've got the prison sentence, I've got the goddamn story here. Even if the interview was about "know your lobbyist" or something like that.

Stephen Colbert's crew is like a horde of busybodies, who are constantly up to something, but you can never be sure exactly what. They turned our conference room into the fucking Starship Enterprise (that's Star Trek humor for Robin), and a recently emptied office into an impromptu makeup room. I swear, there must be so many gay and genderqueer people in hollywood just because of the makeup influence. You can't go on t-v without makeup, it's like some commandment, probably one of the five that punk-ass Moses dropped on his toe and broke apart.

A while ago I had a discussing with a coworker about the Pirates vs. Ninjas debate, and sided with Ninjas due to the lack of the phrase "Butt-Ninja." However, at this point, I have to stand corrected. A butt-ninja is someone who gets into that ass without being noticed. Stephen Colbert is a butt-ninja. He was in and out of DPA so quick, you thought he'd gotten his leather shoes greased for the occasion.

And this was a man with a major fucking cold. I could barely understand him. My initial ploy was to accuse him of being an imposter, and a shitty one at that... but I got nervous, and he didn't look like he would enjoy any antagonization, especially from a fucking crook that looks like Captain Morgan. So instead I observed, and let his horde care to him. He got his makeup done while reading some material to prep himself, went into the conference room for the interview, and then my boss interceded my plan to "hang out" with some busy work.

I swear, my boss was trying to make me pay for some sin against him, but I have no clue what. So instead of hanging out while a segment of The Colbert Report is being taped, right under my fucking nose, I'm trying to discern how to set up a fucking accounting system that's fundamentally fucked, written by morons that don't like SQL from PERL. Morons very similar to myself, actually. I just realized that I couldn't tell the difference between SQL and PERL if you offered me hard cash, without first consulting the Oracle.

Anyways. After the interview segment was over, he was out of the office in under two minutes. Managed to stop him using a sneaky technique: the intern. Interns are great. They don't get paid, they don't get an opinion, and they're the first to go in harm's way. They're the cannon fodder. The intern went in first for the foto-op, and I followed close behind. My line: "A friend of mine from Sacramento said I needed to take a piece of you, or she'd kill me. So how about we settle with a photo, so that we both get to live?"

At this point, Stephen paused to read my t-shirt. I had worn, special for the occasion, my recently-acquired Reagan Youth t-shirt. Reagan Youth is some obscure punk band from the 80's. The t-shirt features a person with their head breaking off their body, VOID printed on the forehead, with the caption "I am not a number, I'm a free man!" (quote from the 60's TV series "The Prisoner"). Yes, I was being fucking ironic. Sue me.

After reading the t-shirt, and posing for the photo, I saw in the corner of my eye his eyebrow lifting, and decided I had to best him. Thus the foto was born.



He was out of DPA less than thirty seconds later. If you peep the folder, that's his backpack on his right shoulder. Yes, even with a posse, he still carries his own shit around the streets of New York. Must just be famous, not rich.

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