Advertise With Us||Links||
Submission Guidelines||Subscribe to Feed||Contact
Deadlines Suck, Man
by Turtle Jones
Today on FTTW we thought it would be a good time to talk about deadlines. Cause we all got them. Those things you hate that are always there. Maybe you are hiding from them or in the case of most of us, straight up ignoring them.
We admit it. We are cowards when it comes to deadlines.
So let's talk about all the ways to get out of or to ignore a deadline until the last possible second.
Turtle is up first.
Deadlines are easy to ignore. First thing you have to do is quit calling them fucking deadlines. They a "suggestion lines". They suggest that you get your project done by a certain time. Cause I mean really, what does the "suggestion line" mean in the grand scale of things anyways? This will become a little more clear after you drop some of that mighty fine LSD I saved from last 4th of July. Ready?
See, The Man makes your brain wake up to the fact that The Man knows you have all the answers but to calm down that amazing power your brain has, The Man must put things in your way to stop your brain from reaching it's full potential.
OK then. Drink a beer and this will get a crystal clear. Cause crystal is clear. You can see into your soul with crystal. I don't mean that crystal meth shit, either. Nah, man. That stuff is made by bikers and shit, man, they live in Chico and just cook that stuff cause they can't find the truth. See my theory is that bikers made the "suggestion lines" "deadlines" cause they don't care. When has was the last time a biker on speed ever come up and hugged you out of nowhere? Never, man. But my brothers and sisters in the "suggestion" group do. All the time. You can feel the love between us brothers and sisters and we try to escape The Man and The Hate Bikers with their oppressive laws and their evil drugs. They try to repress us and put us down. We don't need these suggestions either, man. Since when did we have to live by anyone's rules anyways? Why do they tell us to wear clothes? I'll tell you what. Clothes are another symptom of The Man and The Hate Bikers. They all want us to wear that Abercrome stuff. Levi is like an acronym. You didn't know that?
Po L iticians
Don't know who Jimi is or why they want to take him over but it must be fucking heavy, man. He must know something. So me and my brothers are going up to Seattle to dig up Jimi Hendrix to see if he is really dead. Cause that might be the Jimi they are talking about. Either way, I heard there is some good pot up there. After we get out out of jail for grave robbing or some other law inflicted on us by The Man, we will probably fly to Southern Guana.
There might be a few flaws in my plan but stick with me here.
Want to come along? - T
See what Turtle did there? He started talking about deadlines and went off somewhere else.
This is what I do when a deadline approaches. I deal with everything except what I'm supposed to be doing? I'm supposed to have that on your desk by 3:30? Ok, that means up until 3:20 I will be talking about and doing anything else except what I'm supposed to be doing. The way to deal with looming deadlines, of course, is to ignore them. It's like when you're driving and your car suddenly makes a weird noise, so you turn up the radio. Sure, the noise is still there and it's not getting fixed, but if you don't hear it, you can pretend it doesn't exist.
Oh, I always meet my deadlines. I work best under pressure. 3:20. That's when I'll start doing six hours worth of work. Yep, I'll get it done in ten minutes flat. And it will be precise and error free. It's just how I do things. Ignore, ignore, ignore, EVERYBODY PANIC!!!
The best part of all that is what I do during the time I should be working on whatever I'm supposed to be working on. It's not like I fill my time with mundane things, like making animals out of paper clips or surfing for porn on company time. See, my brain is on full go when there's a deadline coming up. Imagine if I poured a combination of Jolt soda, Starbucks coffee, crystal meth and a gallon of Kool-Aid into my brain. My mind gets kind of wired. Maybe even fried. Because instead of thinking about the thing it is I need to have done, my mind is going in four thousand different directions, none of them the right one. It's like my brain is firing off neurons or whatever you call them, these tiny little projectiles filled with random thoughts that keep me from keeping my eye on the prize. My eyes glaze over and I start thinking of what it would be like to have sex with Glenn Danzig, but not in a real sexual way, more out of curiousity than anything else. For instance, I wonder if Glenn would like a mirror on the ceiling so he can stare at himself while we go at it? And would he moan his own name when he came? Then I'll think about how it would feel to drive a fork through someone's brain. And that leads me to thinking about watching brains slowly slide out of someone's head, which leads me to thinking about lunch, which leads me to zombies, which is really, when you think about it, what it all boils down to anyhow. Zombies. Everything you know, everything you do, ends up being about zombies.
Then some random song lyric will pop into my head. Did you ever have one of those moments where you are merrily singing along to one of your favorite songs and you realize you've been doing it by rote for so long that you never stopped and thought about the lyrics, so you do, and then you're sorry? My brain suddenly is firing snippets of Monster Magnet's Spacelord at me and I relaize I never really did think about what I was singing. So grease up your baby for a ball on the hill? Whatever. But that makes me think about grease. Which makes me think about food. A lot. Greasy, fattening, buttery, death-inviting food. Grilled swiss cheese sandwiches with bacon. French fries and cheese, bacon and sour cream. Anything with lots of salt. And cheese. Even shit would taste good with cheese and salt. Maybe.
Then I look at the clock and I'm about to think about work and a deadline but instead I I think about my old Sega Genesis and I'm really proud of myself for remembering the code to get to the cheat menu on Aladdin. I think about Ewoks and it makes me all pissed at George Lucas all over again because man, we should have seen JarJar coming. And then I get to thinking that all my favorite bands don't exist anymore and not because of age or anything, just that they all broke up at some point over artistic differences or who was fucking whose girlfriend. For some reason - I don't always follow the trail of the firing brain pistons here - that makes me think about farts and I try not to think about farts too much, so we won't go there. But I will glance at the clock once more and be hit by the thought that Master Shake is really a dick to Meatwad. He needs a smackdown. And how come Meatwad doesn't ever get rancid and filled with maggots like any other piece of meat would, unless it's because he's, you know, a cartoon character and all. But still, I can't blame Carl for not letting Meatwad swim in his pool. I wouldn't either.
Fuck. It's 3:20.