Tag Archives: vomitola fired from vomitola

Collective Soul: Vomitola at the bargaining table

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Hello chicken tits, it’s been a few days. We had to spend a bit of time in seclusion after our escape from Promises. Luckily Joe Francis has this primo Mexican compound. Our Lord saw fit to kill his only son so that we might enjoy Easter eggs hollowed out and packed full of blow by the tiny fingers of children.

We also realized that perhaps we could exercise collective bargaining rights to keep our jobs as Vomitola. Then we thought about it after another margarita, and we decided maybe we weren’t really deserving of these rights. What if someone else could use them more? Teachers, firefighters, those sorts of bridge and tunnel folks that make the rockin’ municipal world go ’round. We have everything going for us already! We pay no taxes since we’re a corporation. It wouldn’t be fair to make wealthy conjoined Americans such as ourselves pay taxes twice, so we formed an LLC a while back.

Thus did we officially strip ourselves of the concept of collective bargaining rights and appoint ourselves to our own board. We’re no longer just the presidents and CEOs. Let’s see anyone try a takeover now. Hmmph. Golden parachutes for all two of us! It will be a tandem dive, of course. We will land on Mustique.

I’m not gonna cry. And I’m wavin’ goodbye.

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I will give credit where credit is due. Lambchop was the one who came up with hiding under the pool table in the day room while everyone was absorbed in “Suddenly Susan.” And she busted us out of Promises with nothing more than a plastic bag, some glitter putty, and a “how do you do?”

However, while I reward ingenuity, I also think we need some standards here at Vomitola, some best practices.  Lambchop, what else do you bring to under the table? How are we to move this organization forward? Once upon a time, the user orbited the content, but now the content orbits the user. We’re under the table, but we are the table. We have synergy and mobile applications and Twitter Twits to consider. Are we doing all we can to be Vomitola?

Oh God, I should shut my mouth while the shutting is good. Now we’re going to be forced to fill out peer reviews! As if group therapy wasn’t enervating enough. Lambchop, I promise to be complimentary if you stop trying to insinuate that I am an impostor who is just like the real Licketysplit, but with a terrible case of bacterial vaginosis.

Baby, it Ain’t Paris

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Remind me, why in the hoarhound did I book this vacation?!? First, I was separated from my Mary, and she had all the nips in her purse. So I made sure to tell the concierge that I absolutely cannot make it through a day without a gin and tonic or three. He nodded so sympathetically and then what do you think? If you said “began slicing the limes,” you would be wrong! I can tell you I caused quite a flap, so they put me in a room for hardcore deniers. Spending a day alone in stir with Billy Joel was not on my bucket list, thank you very much. Thank heaven for George Michael, that dirty old queen. His face may be tighter than his ass, but he passed me notes on rolling papers to pass the time.

I bet Licketysplit is having all the fun, making sock monkeys with Mickey Rourke and dropping lima beans in Kiefer Sutherland’s milk. She is a party all by herself.

I had just about given myself up for a goner, when I realized the door was not actually locked. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen. The dishwashers always know how to have a good time.

Stoned & Dethroned: defending our lives

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I don’t think I like it here at Promises at all. First of all, they expect you to eat the food. We don’t eat! I can’t even find the champagne locker. “Home-like” environment my perfect ass.

Let’s not even discuss where I had to conceal my fentanyl patches during intake. And Lambchop isn’t even allowed to be my roomie. She is locked down clear across the campus. We hope to rendezvous in the day room soon.

Mel Gibson is really taking that therapy puppet business to the next level. I preferred the old Mel, who knew his way around a jacuzzi. A real party guy. At least Alec Baldwin will be stopping by later to teach a class on voicemail etiquette. Hint: no one uses the phone anymore.

Tara Reid will be teaching Life Skills, and Lindsay Lohan will doing a seminar on “How to explain gaps in a résumé.” She is also co-moderating a panel on dressing and accessorizing for success with Winona Ryder.

Damn it, Lindsay, you are persuasive. I guess I could stand to revamp my résumé. What am I really good at? Why do I deserve to be Vomitola?

Well, I’m a people person, so I usually handle HR back at HQ.  I, like Tyra Banks, can tell within 3 seconds whether I will have any use for you at all. Not smizing? We have a special diversion program for that. Never let it be said that Vomitola does not nurture the staff. Sure, we may toss the occasional platinum cell phone, but how can we be responsible if someone opts to step into its path?

The more I think about it, the more I realize that this is what we were born to do. No faceless corporation could ever understand the creative process that is our lives. We’re going to have to appeal to the fans on this one. We’re going to have to cry on TV.

To Pose or be Deposed?

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That is the question!  Word has traveled abroad that the creatives at House of Vomitola are “dehydrated” and “suffering from exhaustion.”  These are terrible problems that all beautiful people seem to face.  What is it about the lack of sleep and enough Fiji water that makes one curl into a ball, weeping and motionless apart from occasionally putting one’s fist out for more klonipin?  Perhaps it is the crown what makes the head too heavy to lift. 

But Vomitola can’t be fired from Vomitola.  Over our bewigged and botoxed bodies!  They cannot take away our shiny keys to the executive lav!  I cannot use a toilet that does not feature the voice of Stephen Frye, telling me I am brilliant as my fanny is spritzed lightly with rosewater.  Surely we can offer our most insincere of mea culpas to our public, throw a really nice party, and we’ll be back to eating mini bruschetta off of a jewel encrusted sea turtle in no time.  What?  We have to go to Promises?  But we don’t believe in those.  But we must.  I hope there aren’t any Disney stars there right now, I would hate to have to beat any plump lipped tweens on my very first day at a new resort.  Hate is such a strong word, isn’t it?

Well, I suppose we must get to packing.  I go nowhere without bath salts, my ermine underwear, and my poor Pomeranian, Ernest, who had to be stuffed because he really just would not shut up.  Promises, promises!

The expendables: Vomitola on the chopping block

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We are sure of few things in life.

1) There is no situation that cannot be represented via a Google Images search on The Sims.

2) We are all born terminally ill. It is only a matter of time. Please, have a Kleenex. Get your affairs in order.

3) In the meantime, we may be quotable, but we are always replaceable!

Just the other day, we read that John Galliano had been fired not only from Dior but from John Galliano! Apparently it is a foolhardy idea to allow someone else to own over 90% of your eponymous brand.

You could say we sold our souls years ago, so Lambchop and I have been getting nervous: recently she was asked to fill out a self-assessment, and I was asked to fill out a job application. On paper. These are clear signs that we are dealing with lunatics who do not understand our devil-may-not-particularly-care approach to modern life.

So we wondered: could our very existence in its present form be in jeopardy? Sure, we’ve had our rough patches, our little stunts and tantrums, but we’ve always apologized! Could Vomitola be fired from Vomitola? What will happen to our 401(k)s? Can we elect to use COBRA? Will we deny ourselves unemployment benefits because we were terminated for cause?

Times are still so hard that they make John Boehner cry, so we have decided that we must protect our livelihood by proactively pleading our case before a jury of our peers. As soon as we secure some, for where might we find those can match us in wit, intellect, and beauty?

In the coming days or hours, depending on our schedules, we must dust off our resumes (do people still print those on giant panda skin?) and don the leotards of fierce physical competition.

We will defend ourselves to the death!