2003-03-27

I hate staff meetings. I always go in with the best of intentions, with my notebook and pen all ready for action, ready to take some notes, baby, like the super-keen employee that I know I can be; but those intentions disintegrate like tissue paper in a nuclear blast in the face of the colossal wallop of boredom. My brain just won�t cooperate. I end up thinking in desperate, Shatner-esque sentence fragments: �Must�appear�interested. Must�focus�eyes�and�move pen. Unnnnnngh!� My notes degenerate into random, schizophrenic designs, like webs spun by spiders dosed on LSD, and I periodically jolt out of my torpor wondering things like �Shit, how long have I been sitting here with my mouth hanging open?�

I think I�ve solved one of life�s more confounding mysteries, however. Where DO zombies come from? Is the zombie menace a result of clandestine military experiments gone wrong? Or nefarious supernatural meddlings, perhaps? No. NO, my friends. Somewhere, long ago, an out-of-control staff meeting led to spontaneous death from boredom for all participants, and a subsequent craving for sweet, sweet, unsullied-by-creeping-atrophy brains. I swear, if I didn�t have my Diet Vanilla Coke (hello, new friend � have you met my old friend Vodka?), I�d be sinking my teeth into someone�s cranial cavity right fucking now. Although to be fair, that�s probably just my homicidal rage talking and not any particular desire for Medulla OblonGumbo.