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Things that infuriate the shit out of me [May. 19th, 2005|11:16 am]
I know it is now spring in Manhattan, one of the main reasons people actually live here, and I’m supposed to be in a much better mood, but guess what? I’m fucking not, OK? My career is still killing me and I’m in the middle of a miserable God damn job search. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is to constantly repeat my corporate history to some snide asshole from JP Morgan Chase who thinks he’s the next Donald Trump or some ignorant douchebag headhunter who wants to quickly stick me in some terrible fucking audit or compliance job in some basement somewhere. Plus all the running around, secret phone calls and hiding my interviews from my current employer is driving me to drink (more). Jesus Christ it’s more complicated than cheating on a girlfriend. But since I can’t blow up on any of those people, I thought I’d purge this festering, debilitating anger from my system by ranting and raving about crap all New Yorkers can relate to: shit that pisses us off.

Fat people getting in the way: I can’t blame the old for walking or moving slowing; they’re old and can’t help it, we’re all gonna be that way someday (at least those of us planning to make it to old age). But these fat fucks waddling around our fair city at a snail’s pace drive me fucking nuts. I have zero sympathy for these walking tubs of lard. Listening to some twenty or thirty-something gasp and wheeze as he / she slowly, painfully pulls themselves up the stairway railing out of a subway terminal while the rest of us are trying to get up the same stairs and get to work on time throws me into fits of rage. “Oh it’s glandular it’s not my fault, oh it’s genetic it’s not my fault, oh I have an eating disorder it’s not my fault.” Guess what? I don’t give a fuck. Put the fucking Twinkies and cheeseburgers down, turn the fucking T.V. off and get on a treadmill, fatass! Or eat until you’re so grossly obese you can’t leave the apartment. Whatever, just get the fuck out of the way of us skinny folk.

Morons who stand left on escalators: Holy shit how hard is it to comprehend a basic rule of urban life? STAND RIGHT WALK LEFT you fucking retards! If you’re too lazy to move then kindly stand aside and get the fuck out of my way because that is my train rolling into the platform you are blocking me from. It takes an incredible amount of self control on my part to keep from knocking these people right the fuck over.

Couples holding hands in crowded environments: OK great, you’re in love, fucking congratulations. But do you have to hold hands everywhere you go, especially on Sixth Avenue in midtown? People have places to go, business to conduct, covert interviews to attend. Unclasp your sweaty palms and let people get by you!! If you MUST engage in public displays of affection, kissing, whispering sweet nothings into one another’s ears, holding hands, go to a park or something. You’re inconveniencing the rest of us while nauseating us at the same time. Besides, we can all see that it’s never going to work.

Tourists: Spend your money and get the fuck out of here.

Douchebags who come down to the East Village on the weekends: I know you live on the Upper West Side, somewhere in New Jersey or Staten Island or Queens and your neighborhood sucks. So you come down to where I live on the weekends for a good time and think you can go fucking hog wild. The East Village isn’t Mardi Gras you assholes, people actually live here. I can’t count the number of times I’ve almost stepped in vomit on a Sunday morning or walked on shattered glass from someone’s broken windshield or seen a stupid Saturday night bar fight spill outside into Avenue B. Residents of the East Village should be legally allowed to mace these idiots every time they act up, vomit, commit vandalism, fight or smoke dope openly in the street. Have fun but show some decorum because believe it or not, during the work week, the rest of us who live here don’t act like drunken maniacs.

Asshole cab drivers who don’t know how to drive: I know you’re fresh off the boat from Pakistan and excited to be in the land of opportunity where they just hand you keys to a car as soon as you step out of the welfare office, but could you please learn how to fucking drive? While you’re at it, could you please look at a map of this city? I don’t know how many times I get in a cab and have to tell the driver where the fuck it is I’m going. “No, the FDR is on the east side, the West Side Highway is west, that’s why they call it the fucking WEST SIDE HIGHWAY! I said 5th street, not 50th street. I said Houston, not Hudson! And hey, you just turned the wrong way down a one way street, are you trying to get us killed?” Plus I ride my bike around the city when it gets nice and to see the dangerous and aggressive driving these guys pull makes me fear for my life. Bike lanes mean nothing to these assholes. And our government wonders how Al Qaeda is getting such good intel on sensitive locations and weak spots? That’s because they’re driving all over the fucking city!

People who don’t clean up after their dogs: Hey if you’re going to get a big dog for that tiny one bedroom apartment you live in, fine, but clean up after the thing once it shits its brains out all over the sidewalk! Are you too cool or something to pick up poop with a plastic bag? Then you shouldn’t have gotten that pet. I would love to grab these lazy owners by the scruff of their necks, shove their face in that steaming turd while whacking them over the head with a rolled up New York Post screaming “Bad dog owner! Bad! Bad!” but my lawyer tells me another assault conviction will get me hard time.

People who talk politics in bars: Shut the fuck up already, the election is over, your opinion means nothing! You are ignorant and irritating. If you have to bash Bush or have to praise the war in Iraq get a blog or something, I’m trying to get drunk over here!

Other shit that only mildly irritates me

Morons trying to hail every cab they see: Hey jackasses, I’ll let you in on a little secret, you need to look for cabs with the fare lights on. Waving and screaming like you’re drowning in a kiddie pool isn’t going to make just any cab stop. Believe it or not there is a system, and it’s not that hard to figure out.

People doing Seinfeld imitations: It’s over, OK? Just stop.

Velvet rope scenes: Yeah like New York City is so starved for bars and clubs I really need to stand in line for 30 minutes to have some fucking greasy guido from Long Island check out my gear before he decides to let me into a place where I have to pay $15 for a gin and tonic. Fuck you.

Cheap dope: Come on, I paid $50 for this and all it did was give me a headache. But you deliver right to my door and sometimes have pretty good shit so I can’t complain too much.

People who talk shop in bars: I don’t want to hear about your work week while I’m drinking my Jack & coke. If you’re that wrapped up in your job you need to talk about it during your time off, then you should get back to the office, you vacuous drone.

Subway PA systems: The subways in general are pretty good in this town. They are dirty as a $2 dollar whore, smell and can be very overcrowded, but more or less they run on time. But for fuck’s sake do the PA systems on every platform have to be so incomprehensible? “Ladies and gentlemen, due to SKXXXZXZXZZKKKRRT – service on the SKKKZZZRRTKKKKKTTT - interrupted for XKKKKKSSKKT - further notice. We apologize for SKZZZZKKKKTTTRRTTTT.” Yeah, thanks for the update.
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Alex Winter: "Operation Mindfuck" [May. 10th, 2005|03:39 pm]
The flow of time here at Bank of New England Securities (BoNES) has slowed to the most excruciating pace possible. The days are endless meetings, detailing processes, applications, systems and products in mind numbing minutiae the likes of which could rival Grey’s Anatomy. Because this bank’s back office systems are basically COBOL based Atari 2600’s cobbled together by electrical tape and coat hangers, my team and I need to obfuscate the systems’ massive shortcomings, dangerous security holes and laughable limitations by basically exaggerating the shit out of and / or inventing functionality. So I am being paid to lie, and I’m doing a fantastic job of it.

Luckily, we have a helper monkey on our team to do the grunt work and provide hours of entertainment to boot. His name is Davy and he is a management analyst on our team, fresh out of some overrated Ivy League college. Davy is (or rather, was) a smart, hardworking, cheerful helper monkey. I don’t know who he pissed off to get stuck with us, but over the long, terrible weeks we have mentally broken him. He is a hollow eyed, twitching shell of his former self and our mission on the human resources front has been accomplished.

The dead know only one thing: it is better to be aliveCollapse )
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Excerpt from: How to Deal Drugs in Manhattan (a forthcoming novel by Alex Winter) [Apr. 19th, 2005|09:56 pm]
Chapter 3: Industry Standard

The grim reality of life working a shitty Wall Street job came crashing home like a firebomb through a stained-glass window the moment I walked across the threshold of my hated office the next day.
“Winter!” my son-of-a-bitch boss snarled. “You’re late again! Get your ass over here and sit the fuck down!”
As I mentioned before, I worked as a stock trader for a few years. Looking back on it now I can say that I truly hated it, I just didn’t realize it at the time. I simply assumed that everyone in the working world was as miserable as I was. And I had blinders covering my field of vision in the form of big fat paychecks. In order for me to fully explain what the hell I actually did, and how completely ridiculous that world can be, I’ll have to explain a little bit about the trenches of the business.
I wasn’t the kind of obnoxious/desperate sounding drone who calls you up right as you sit down to dinner and asks:
“So Mr. or Mrs. Smith, do you invest in the market for yourself?”
Those cold calling idiots are brokers, and unless they work for one of the big houses these days, they’re probably spitting blood every time they see an E*Trade commercial on T.V. While the following description does not apply to every broker in the business, the stockbroker is basically a type of brainless Wall Street scumbag who suckers anybody he can into investing in what he claims is “a sound investment vehicle,” or “an idea that makes good financial sense.” What he is really trying to push on them is whatever the firm is telling them to sell that week, whether it’s a sound investment or a lump of steaming dogshit. The broker spends most of his days relentlessly calling people at home or at work, irritating the hell out of them until some poor sucker eventually capitulates to his whining and tells him that they might be interested in buying something. The broker is the parasite of Wall Street, feeding off the bank accounts of the stupid like a mosquito on the ass of a fat beach chick too lazy to roll over.

A client is a lot like a woman. You’ve got to hold their hand and tell them you know what you’re doing before they let you fuck themCollapse )
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Alex Winter: "Freaks, Losers and Triads, Oh My!" [Mar. 31st, 2005|03:30 pm]
One of the interesting things about being a consultant is the opportunity to observe the everyday social interaction among the client employees when they think you’re working. Every firm has its own culture and the Bank of New England Securities (BoNES) is no exception to this rule. The culture here is strange, paranoid, secretive and extremely unhealthy. It would be difficult to describe this culture and its various psychotic nuances, so instead I’ll provide the reader with a snapshot of some of the more colorful employees here to give you an idea of the situation I’m currently stuck in.

1) The hydra. The hydra is a pack of 4 enormously fat women who roam the halls of BoNES together. They go to lunch together. They smoke way too many cigarettes together. They go to the bathroom together. I have never seen one without the other 3 in tow. I am beginning to suspect that they are lesbians and do strange things to one another when no one else is watching (I plan on solving this mystery with a little patience and a digital camera. Rest assured dear reader, if anything good develops I will post these pictures for your perverted enjoyment).

Read more...Collapse )
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Proof that our government has really lost it [Mar. 18th, 2005|02:26 pm]
OK so Congress wasn't wasting enough taxpayer money making
major league baseball players cry about their steroid abuse, they are
now going to subpoena a brain damaged drooling vegetable? Are they
kidding? Is this some kind of sick joke?

Is the war in Iraq over? Is Al Qaeda no longer a threat? Do our allies trust and respect us again? Have we corrected our fiscal policy so much that we can now waste time with this right wing Christian right-to-life horseshit? This is the most stupid, insane nonsense I've ever, ever seen anywhere. It is a disgrace. What the fuck is she supposed to say after two goons in ill-fitting navy blue suits wheel her up, strap her into the stand and jam that microphone in front of her tube? Here are the possibilities:

Congressman Asshole (R-Midwest): "Ma'am, are you in fact brain damaged?"
Terri Schiavo: "Mbflx"
Congressman Asshole: "Would you repeat that statement, ma'am?"
Terri Schiavo: "Flxgvubiz"
CA: "Stenographer, would you read the transcript back to me?"
S: "Of course. She said 'mbflx' and 'flxgvubiz.'"


The Republic of the United States of America will be a 3rd world nation inside of 10 years and we're all watching it happen right now.
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Alex Winter: SPIRITUAL MASS SUICIDE [Mar. 14th, 2005|04:35 pm]
The hated winter months have loomed long in my soul. I awake from dreamless sleep into agonizing hangover, stumbling out of my bed into a shower, the only real warmth I can expect to experience each day. It is always black outside.

I shamble 6 blocks through filthy polluted snow and across treacherous ice to the JMZ line, staring at my washed out reflection against the ghostly subway tunnel gloom as the train screams to its destination. The trains disgorge their cargo and we march into the office in single file, flashing our bar-coded identification badges to the bored security guards, slipping our briefcases and backpacks into the maw of the x-ray machines. Our cubicles await our return. It is Monday in corporate America.

I am part of an army of drones engaging in our gradual spiritual Jonestown Massacre, pumping the ATM machines like rats in a Skinner Box and dropping our Prozac Kool Aid to fill that aching voidCollapse )
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Alex Winter: “…Gonna End up a Big Old Pile of Them BoNES” [Mar. 7th, 2005|02:26 pm]
Some time has passed since we’ve hit the ground here at the Bank of New England Securities (BoNES) and commenced our latest teeth grinding, migraine-inducing project. During this time I’ve reached a few conclusions about this bank, which I impart to you in no particular order:

1) This bank sucks Satan’s thorny black cock
2) People working at this bank are miserable pencil pushers who shamble aimless around like starving dogs looking for a place to die
3) This bank is cheaper than an Hasidic Jew at a 99 cent store
4) My primary project sponsor is a raving lunatic who despises consultants (luckily he hates us so much he rarely interacts with us on any level other than to occasionally curse us or hurl cups of cold coffee at us)
5) My secondary project sponsor is an evil-hearted micromanaging bitch who is never wrong about anything (she on the other hand loves bothering us about the most trivial horseshit you could ever possibly imagine)
6) The downtown office I now inhabit has a nap center for their employees. This is not because their employees work long hours, but because it is socially acceptable to sleep on the job here. I wish I were kidding or exaggerating, but sadly I am not. This observation is made more poignant to me when I review the slave hours I’ve been working since I landed here.
7) Since starting this engagement I have been drinking a quart of vodka every night to get to sleep
8) Although I desperately need a new career, I would rather blind myself with two number 8 pencils than work at this terrible, soul-sucking hellhole of a bank

Not two minutes into the presentation the workshop devolved into chaos, a pure bitch session filled with more public venom and vitriol than most celebrity divorcesCollapse )
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Calling a co-worker attending a funeral to ask them for help on a project is inappropriate [Feb. 23rd, 2005|06:39 pm]
Dark and ominous storm clouds have gathered over my horizon. I recently received some bad news from an old friend of mine whose mother passed away in a freak laundromat accident. She had apparently thought there was a small child trapped in a washing machine during the spin cycle and crawled in to save the poor tyke. Unfortunately my friend’s mother suffered from disorganized schizophrenia and the child she perceived to be calling to her turned out to be a sweatshirt flapping against the side of the machine. The results were tragic: she was killed and the laundry was ruined.

by Alex Winter... read moreCollapse )
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Alex Winter: Did I say “Goodbye Forever?” Because I meant “Stay Sober? Never!” [Feb. 22nd, 2005|10:11 am]
I’ll admit, dear readers, that once I found out we’d have 4 more years of psychotic warmongering, lies and unbelievable fiscal recklessness cloaked in the guise of family values, patriotism and evangelicalism, I became distraught, paranoid, angry, drunk and depressed. Rightfully so, but some time has passed and I’m ready to admit that I may have been premature in signing off from my column here at DownMarketGuru. I needed to take a breather and examine the New America we’ve found ourselves trapped in. I’ve concluded that now, more than ever, I need to take a stand and rant and rave about anything that pops into my deranged skull. This is primarily for 2 reasons:

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(no subject) [Dec. 10th, 2004|06:08 pm]
The following is an email intercepted from an unsecure corporate webserver. It was a rebuttal from a New Yorker to a British co-worker who had apparently crossed a line during his criticisms of America.


1) Learn how to cook, you Limey dipshits. You've been living right next to France for thousands of years and you're still stuffing your gullets with boiled liver and lawn clippings. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?

2) There is a grand American invention known as orthedontia. It was developed shortly after another invention known as dental hygenie. You buck toothed freaks may want to look into it.

3) Your queen looks like a man.

4) Only poor people who can't afford refrigeration drink warm beer.

5) Your government looks pretty silly wearing those white powdered wigs.

6) You best cricket players wouldn't qualify for a Special Olympics baseball team.

7) The only good car you tea-sipping nancies ever came up with was your precious Jag-u-ar. They're even better now that they're built Ford tough these days.

8) Had it not been for America, England would be the smallest fucking province of the Russian empire.
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