THIS IS A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM. IF THIS WERE A REAL EMERGENCY YOU WOULD BE INSTRUCTED TO PLACE YOUR HEAD BETWEEN YOUR KNEES AND KISS YOUR ASS GOODBYE.

I’m currently sitting in the Atlanta airport. A few moments ago the alarm system went off and a pre-recorded message voiced by a guy that sounded suspiciously like Elaine’s boss on Seinfeld stated that “an emergency has been reported in the building. While this emergency is being verified, please stand by.”  He reported this about 25 times in a row without so much as a change of inflection. I suppose a change in inflection is a little much to ask of a pre-recorded message, but I think it would make it much more effective. If he started with a calm and confident voice and then began sounding more and more panicked each time he repeated it until he was screaming “for God’s sake, run for your lives!” it would carry a little more weight. At the moment everyone around me only seems pissed that they can’t hear their gate announcements over the alarm.

I don’t know what is going on, but if you hear a story about the former Atlanta airport on the nightly news, I want everyone out there in Xanga-land to know it’s been fun.

EDIT: I sat there for two more hours after the announcement and they never said another word! I haven’t endured that kind of tease since going out with my date for the Jr. Prom.  Anyway, the Atlanta airport is apparently still there and I’m safe and sound back in Tulsa.

For those of you who remember my post about the upcoming sales meeting I was dreading, I’m sitting in that meeting right now. I’m currently listening to a report on tax code policies by our CFO. If I had a gun, I swear to God I’d shoot myself.

I did my presentation earlier this morning. I did a little soft shoe, a little juggling, a little slight-of-hand, and spread a lot of verbal fertilizer. I’m glad to report that it’s over and that it went well. I’m also glad to report that in the month of January I’ve already surpassed all of 2006. That says two things: first, it was a good January and secondly, 2006 royally sucked.

The awards banquet is tonight. I certainly won’t be receiving any awards for 2006 unless, of course, they plan to give an award for the largest amount of alcohol consumed during the banquet.

But that’s ok. I’ll sit back, let the new guys shine, and smile and pat them on the back while I’m secretly seething inside and plotting their demise.

I took a photo of our corporate training room during a break a few minutes ago. Notice that the few people who are left in the room are all on their laptops searching for new jobs on monster.com.

Well, I’d better stop typing and start listening. God knows I don’t want to miss the upcoming segment on personal hygiene tips for making cold calls.

 A COLD DAY IN HELL

Last weekend, Oklahoma endured three consecutive ice storms over a three day period. After millions of trees were destroyed and thousands upon thousands of people found themselves without electricity, President Bush declared Oklahoma a national disaster area.

The running joke is that those of us who live here have known that for YEARS.

Our family never lost power but we did have to do some serious “roughing-it.”  At one point, the ice got so thick on our rear deck that I wasn’t able to lift the cover off the hot tub. I still get the shakes just thinking about it.

It’s been almost a week and we are still covered in ice. I took the following pictures yesterday. It’s actually kind of beautiful in a creepy “Jack Nicholson in the Shining” sort of way.

I’m getting kind of stir crazy and the weather man says more snow is coming in tonight.

I think I’ll go sharpen my ax.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE HTML

Web Surfer, once I decided to track you I expected

that you would come back to my site every day.

But I have noticed that even when I post something I think is extremely clever

there are times when there is only my set of footprints.

I don’t understand why when

I needed your comments most you would leave me.

The Web Surfer replied:

My precious blogger,

I love your witless drivel and I would never leave you.

During your time of tracking

when you see only your set of footprints;

it was then that I was doing a Google search for naked pictures of

Britney Spears.

I love the new “Footprints” feature of Xanga. Not because I find it slightly odd that I get repeated hit from the Ukraine, but because I think it’s hysterical that pervs stumble across my site doing Google searches for porn.

They have to be horribly disappointed to be searching for pictures of Brooke Burke (January 3^rd post) and find pictures of a pudgy middle aged guy in an elf suit (December 22^nd post).

So…I offer this for all those surfers doing their elicit searches:

Dear Surfer,

It’s cold outside so I’m sitting in front of a hot, roaring fire. The shoes I wore outside earlier are still wet from the snow.  I’m trying to get over a nasty cold, but I’m feeling much better.  I’m stuck inside and I’m so bored I just watched a Discovery Channel program about sex - characteristic differences in mollusks.  With all of the programming on TV, I should be able to find lots to watch but I think I’m going to be stuck watching one of the old Naked Gun movies on TBS. If that doesn’t keep me occupied, perhaps I’ll go up to the attic and pull out all of my old Super Man comic books, or all of the models of trains and airplanes I built as a kid and play with those for awhile.

There…that should piss off the surfers.

 THE RISE AND FALL OF THE MALE EGO

As many of you know, I make my living in sales.  As many of you also know, salesmen are generally regarded as polyester-wearing, bull shit-spouting, blood-sucking leeches that reek of bad cologne and have the ethical convictions of a mob lawyer; think Herb Tarlek crossed with Frank Regano. I take exception to this stereotype, because I almost never wear polyester.

Salesmen are also generally assumed to have egos the size of Rosie O’Donnell’s thighs. This part of the stereotype is entirely true…and I’m no exception.

We have our annual sales meeting in January each year and sales awards are presented at a banquet that is part of the event. Last year I was given the “Presidents Award.” I’m only the second person in the 35 year history of the company to have achieved the sales levels necessary to be eligible for the award (the award is given for exceeding a specific dollar amount in sales for five consecutive years). When the award was given (and I’m not kidding about this) confetti dropped from the ceiling, moving lights danced around the room in sync to a pre-recorded orchestral track, while a slide show of my accomplishments played on a giant screen behind me.

I had to be driven away from the event in a Winnebago in order to contain my ego.

This year is a little different.

I’ve been with the company for 13 years now, and 2006 was my worst year…ever.  Our company is small. We only have 22 salesmen nationwide, but out of those 22, I came in 20^th. The two people I beat were brand new and were only with the company a few months during the year. This stellar sales performance came during a year when our company exceeded last year’s sales by over 20%.  My ego is taking a bit of a beating.

The problem is the upcoming sales meeting; I don’t want to go if I’m not the big sales “hero.”  Is that childish and petulant?  Absolutely, but it doesn’t change how I feel.  I’ve told my boss that I’m scheduled to have bird flu at the time of the sales meeting. I’ve told him that my mom’s funeral is scheduled at that time (it probably doesn’t help that it’s three weeks away and he knows my mom has been dead for 25 years.) I’ve even told him I plan to fall off my roof and re-break my ankle the day before the meeting, but it doesn’t look like any excuse I give is going to get me out of having to go. The worst part is that I have to give a presentation.

Due to my enormous ego, I usually love giving presentations. I spice them up with silly graphics, a few minutes of stand-up, and an occasional soft shoe number. However, I’m dreading this presentation as much as President Bush probably dreads press conferences. I’ll give some impassioned speech about sticking it out through the hard times, about the ups and downs of the sales cycle, and about how perseverance pays in the end. My audience will cheer me on and pat me on the back, but inside…I will be totally humiliated.

This entire experience has taught me how me how silly the male ego is. It’s taught me that my sense of self-worth should not hinge on something as trivial as my sales numbers. It’s taught me that there is so much in life that is more important that my job performance…

…and if I don’t get a freakin sales trophy next year, I’m going to go sit in the corner, pout, and suck my thumb. I want my damn confetti back.

I’m a guy, so…

I understand the existence of Maxim Magazine

I understand why Brooke Burke hosts shows like “Rock Star” despite having no discernable talent for hosting shows like “Rock Star.”

I understand that no one really cares what the chicken wings taste like at Hooters.

I understand that every man who says he reads Playboy for the outstanding journalism is a liar.

But this…this I don’t understand:

I took this photo while driving by a local “Gentlemen’s Club” here in Tulsa and the sign begs a few questions:

• Do they use tiny poles?

• Is the appeal that they are at an “advantageous” height during a lap dance?

• Is there Jello or mud wrestling involved?

• Where do they go to buy g-strings?

• Will the menu offer “shrimp” cocktail?

• Will anyone recognize me if I’m in sunglasses and a fedora?