Creeping Through The Cellar Door (none_too_subtle) wrote,
Creeping Through The Cellar Door
none_too_subtle

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How to get rid of the competition, military style

The position for which I'm vying has a forerunner who allegedly knows a great deal of HTML/XML. Mkay...that's all groovy, but who doesn't? So instead of convincing them that "I'm Better Than He Is," I'll plot his demise instead. :D



1. Wait at the front door of studio. He's a big guy, but I could take him down with a switchblade (or baseball bat). Then again, he's from San Diego; I could lure a guy from the Southside to sweettalk him.

2. Find out which car is his and spray paint -- in bold letters -- "SATAN'S LEGION IS AFTER YOU".

3. Get his phone number, tell him I'm with a competitor, offer him a better job with a fuller benefits package, and arrange for an interview next MONTH. Tell him the job is DEFINITELY his, so just wait.

4. 'Accidentally' spill coffee on his suit. He'll look like a goofy, clumsy schmuck (hopefully).

5. I could always flatten his tires; but that's such a girl thing to do.

6. Call him up, misrepresent, tell him I'm someone else and that he didn't get the job. Heh. Then, inform him if anyone ELSE calls, they're lyin' to him. :D

7. Hold the entire station hostage with a sawed off M-16A2 until they GIVE IT TO ME.

8. Whisper to him that they REALLY like it when he refers to women as "chicks," and to call them chick, chickidee, heyyy chick as often as possible. *heh*

9. Steal his AP Stylebook. In fact, take ALL AP Stylebooks that might be remaining on B&N's shelves and keep them until he's back in California.

10. Hang out in lobby, and while he waits, tell him about that one time I almost crashed flying from Germany to Birmingham, going into great detail about two engines shutting down, the athiests who prayed, and how we all were hiding under the seats (true story, but I hear he has a fear of flying...might work).

Feh
Nahhh I'm not the least bit nervous. May the best man win. Heh. I just...need...to...resist...urge...to...e-mail...call. Whew. I think I can do that. It's a 50/50 crap shoot right now; I HATE those odds. With my luck, I'll lose out ONLY because I didn't wow them with my HTML/XML prowess. And that would be a shame. I'm better under pressure, and hey -- that's ENOUGH for a television station (or typically is).

Love in the Moonlight
LISTEN UP, PEEPAL: If you wanna live to see your next freakin' birthday, do not EVER, EVER, NEVER, EVERRRRRR call my house after 8!!!! Everyone in this world (and some who haven't even HEARD of me), know that I have no life whatsoever, and am in bed sometimes at 6:30, but RARELY later than 8. If you call me on either phone, I assume you're a 'friend.' And by THAT assumption, I'd expect you to respect my BOUNDARIESSSSSSSSS. I received three -- count them *holds cell phone up to monitor* -- calls last night, the first one around 8:30. WTH?!?! ALL I write about is insomnia, how hard it is for me to go to sleep, etc., et al; YOU guys read this, I know. So when I DO finally go to sleep and someone disrupts it, I CAN'T GO BACK TO SLEEP. The last call came in at 2-freakin'-thirty and I was none too happy. I was SO mad, in fact, that I just stared at my phone, thanking God that I had 'Bach' as a ringing option (which is the ONLY thing that soothed my savage, half-asleep beast).

DO NOT CALL ME EVER AFTER 7:30, EVER NEVER, EVER.



Fancy, eh? LOL. Carry on. I need to design a web page with lots of over-done html/xml and quickly e-mail the link to er...yeah. Them.
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