A Case of The Fuckits

You losers.

Yall just don't know the art of Fucking Around.

First off, get yourself a good case of The Fuckits.

What are The Fuckits?

The Fuckits are those little voices in your head that put you to sleep in the bathroom stall while you're taking a shit.

They're the little bastards who skip meetings, delete emails, sabotage your co-workers, and park in the restricted area at work and slam the car door into that blue convertible gay-ass Porche that fat-bastard bushy mustached exec tools around in.

They're the fucks who spit on your hand and rub it on your boss's office door.

They're the little nags that say, Hey, dumbfuck, that was a great workout, you owe yourself a black-and-tan!

But it's two in the afternoon. I have a staff meeting at three o'clock.

Fuckit, they say.

Fuckit, you say.

And now, my friend, you have a full-on hard-on raging boner throbbing fuck-em-dry case of The Fuckits.

I suffer from The Fuckits. I suffer pretty bad.

This morning I arrived late.

I then typed an email that took me two hours. Yes, two hours. One email. And it's not even work-related. It's about my son's soccer team. I drew up a pretty little diagram and mailed it to my parents. It had sharks in it, because that's the name of my boy's soccer team. I spent quite a while getting the shark images just right.

I'm a perfectionist, you know. That's a syndrome.

Now I'm posting on Pointless.

I'll eat soon, and then do a couple of hours of work -- yes, I have to do ~some~ work, to maintain appearances. Usually, I work between the hours of eleven and one or two o'clock.

After I scrub out some good-looking work, I'll head to the gym and work out for an hour.

Did I say, An hour?

What I meant was, Two hours. Give or take.

I may even stop on my way and take a nap in the car.

When I get back to work around three o'clock, I'll do a little more work. Usually, this is in the form of sending emails that bounce toward the boss, and touch on high-visibility projects. The other shit I blow off. Someone else will pick up the slack, you know. They always do.

Who are these people? I often ask myself.

Well, they used to be me. I used to be that dumbfuck who picked up the slack. Dumbfucks like you.

After I send some strategic emails, I'll work on my website. I'll tend to my after-school job, the one I actually enjoy doing. I'll write 2,500 words with my headset on, listening to Korn and Seether and Everclear.

Then I'll leave early, explaining I have basketball practice.

And I do have basketball practice for my son.

But it just got cancelled, one voice says. The basketball coach is sick.

Fuckit, the other voice says. You owe yourself a black-n-tan.


- Saul