Potato Of The Day Episode 98


It was just a word, a simple idea really, but the room was in immediate agreement. How could they not be? This was Bravo-Toaster presenting after all. Sure, he’d had a few misfires with purple cauliflower and tie-dyed bell peppers, and sure, no one could really point to any specific successes he was directly responsible for, but he was the fastest rising executive in the entire firm, skipping the corporate ladder entirely, instead crawling up the pile of bodies he’d thrown under the bus. Interns, hippies, old men hiding in the shadows waiting for retirement – they were all gone now. And Bravo-Toaster had made sure of that.

Bravo-Toaster had a cemented confidence about him now, matched by his final hair form, the comb-over, his accession from #MILLENIALEXPERT to full-on business god completed thanks to the webinar series Grab Your Boss By The Balls: A Guide To Getting Promoted (later retitled, in reaction to negative PR, Grab Your Boss’s Junk: A Gender-Proof Guide To Promotion, and then, after more negative press still, re-retitled Don’t Touch Anyone Ever For Any Reason: Getting Promoted The Asperger’s Way.). This was a man born then reborn then rebranded again, an ever-evolving marketing cyborg programmed to hashtag and retweet its way to the top.

The product itself was a fat, slimy Florida avocado. How their firm was able to land another produce client after their past debacles was a puzzling mystery to most. The Head Account Executive who’d brought in the business knew the answer, but he was on forced administrative leave following a sexual harassment suit levied at the firm. He’d acted shocked when the papers were served, not understanding how one measly grope, twelve suggestive drunken text messages, and a not-even-fully-erect dick pic constituted as harassment. He was a leftover relic of an era in marketing that no longer existed, a dinosaur who’d forgot to fossilize, and the firm’s younger uprising of board members were happy to push him out, leaving Junior Executives scraping over each other in bloody backstabbings, passive-aggressive memos and peer-reviews of past-failures, for a shot at his leftover clients.

Of course it would turn out later that it was Bravo-Toaster who’d convinced the intern, a woman he’d had fired for mangling a job she wasn’t qualified for to begin with, to levy the suit. He’d played both sides perfectly in the ensuing chaos, even comforting the Head Account Executive’s wife (a woman who’s dosage of Oxy for the treatment of “migraines” had reached such a point she wouldn’t have felt a beheading, let alone a headache) with a hand-written letter, an idea he’d gotten from a popular listicle entitled Ten Things Old People Wish Still Existed, while simultaneously showing in-house initiative with his introduction of DiversifiHiRe, a proposal for shifting HR hiring practices away from the men who considered other white men who dared wear khakis in the workplace diverse, lauded for its creative incorporation of capitalization and vague spelling.

The resulting hires from DiversifiHiRe were a young, ambition-crazed marketer’s wet dream, an army of diversely colored and gendered robots, all programmed to spout the same ridiculous social media market trends and ideas for improving return on investment, an ROI or DIE squad. Slightly younger, impressionable, and eager to save the world through viral marketing, Bravo-Toaster worked them over one by one, adding them on Instagram, Twitter, hell, LinkedIn, collaborating on memes and memory shares, building relationships, networking nightly, until at last, they all adored him, backing him in every meeting and #THINKSPACE forum.

And there they all were, stacked to the brim in his technicolor ark, hanging by the edge of their seats, waiting, wondering how their mystical savant marketing savior would deliver the word of the Slimcado, a bigger, heftier avocado, to the legion of granola moms concerned about their Fitbit regulated caloric intake.

“A webinar, obviously. I didn’t get where I am by NOT watching webinars now, did I?”

And as it began, so did it end.


Fuck 3-5pm On Friday Afternoon


For real, fuck 3-5pm on Friday afternoon. Why does this chunk of time even exist? It’s an actual time prison, crushing down on your false delusions of freedom and hope. Oh hey, you see the weekend out there, so tantalizingly close? Just reach out and touch it. Oh wait, you can’t! Because it’s still the stupid fucking work week so you’re still chained to your stupid fucking desk for some stupid fucking reason. Fuck.

You know how much work has gotten done between 3-5pm on Friday afternoon (I’m talking CUBE work here, not the real work provided by heroes like doctors and plumbers and Happy Hour bartenders)? One. Now, you might say, “Ben, ‘one’ doesn’t seem like an applicable or complete answer to that proposed question. One of what?” To which I say, it’s fucking Friday afternoon between 3-5pm, so one of whatever, dude. One work unit. That’s all that has been done ever in the history of forever. In some dial-up, prehistoric sundial confirmed 3-5pm block of a Friday afternoon, one unit of work was accomplished once, by what I assume was a wide-eyed, newly hired, desperate-to-please intern before they looked up and realized everyone else in the office wasn’t doing jackshit, and abandoned that stupid idea forever. Yes, even misguided overachievers desperate to make a head first impact on the top rung of the corporate ladder don’t do shit on Friday afternoons from 3-5pm. SO WHY ARE WE HERE?

You know how I know work doesn’t get done between 3-5pm on a Friday afternoon? Because you’re reading a blog post titled Fuck 3-5pm On Friday Afternoon. You’re doing that right now. ON A FUCKING FRIDAY AFTERNOON. I was going to write my normal half-assed, week ending Potato Of The Day, but instead I was like yo, it’s Friday afternoon, why the fuck should I do anything? To which you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Truth.”

Anyway, I’ve got two hours til I can waterboard my liver with tequila. That’s nothing on a Monday. But on a Friday? That’s damn near impossible. It’s fucking torture by Friday cubicle. Yet, we always mange to endure that slow strangle of Friday afternoon time, finding trivial novelties to fulfill our meaningless Friday afternoon existences, don’t we? So let’s go do that. That thing that gets us by. I’ll probably go Snapchat some racially charged emojis or look at pictures of head tattoos or some shit. I don’t know. Hell, maybe I can kill eight whole minutes asking everyone for their weekend plans. Again. Fuck 3-5pm on Friday Afternoon. Fuck it long. And fuck it hard.

Potato Of The Day Episode 89

pomegranateI wish more things in life weren’t like pomegranates. Pomegranates are difficult. They’re hard to crack, hard to eat, hard to enjoy. They require real effort, deliberately focused repetitive energy. They require motivation. They require commitment. Sure, there’s a payoff there, a pearl of life-refreshing juice. But there’s just too much you have to go through to get to that point. You have to cut and score the skin, you have to break the membrane apart, you have to pick the seeds out one by one, you have to filter and strain, you have to rinse, and THEN, only then, do you get to eat. And it might be great, it might be life changing, it might even be a tropical fruit orgasm for your mouth, but DAMN, it was a lot of work. Too much work. Just like success in life. Fuck that noise. I’m off that.

I don’t want to work for success. I just want it. There. Delivered to me for doing whatever it was I happened to be doing. I just want the pleasure of enjoying the fruit, not the fruits of my labor. I want to be that lucky bastard who got straight to the pomegranate seed without dealing with the skin first. And be honest, you know you want that too. Sure you can work really hard, you can study and perfect, you can practice, you can plan and execute, you can master your craft. You can do all those things you need to do to succeed, and you might, might, get there, to that promised locked, away burst of treasure juice. Or you might not. Maybe by the time you get there, it’s gone bad, you know? Or maybe, the whole journey, the trials and tribulations, wiped away your desire to get there in the first place? Or maybe, the effort is just too much, and you never make it at all. And then what?

So let me just have this one. Just nod to yourself and go, “Yup, good post”. Give it a big ole fucking gold star. Just don’t ask me to put more effort into this. Don’t make me sell it to you. Don’t make me share it. Don’t make me work. Just let me exist in minimal effort, collecting praise for a job done. Who cares if I did it all that well? Who cares if I spent time editing, revising sentences, carving excess marble away, reducing down to the perfect blend of punctuation and word? Who really cares? Maybe you do. But that pomegranate sure doesn’t. And I sure don’t. So maybe my first sentence was wrong? That decision is up to you.

Potato Of The Day Episode 77

papayaupdatesI’m so goddamned sick and tired of waiting for this goddamned papaya to finish installing updates. How long can this even take? I plugged my papaya in HOURS ago. I was told the updates would take just a minute to complete. But I’ve been staring at my papaya progress bar (i.e. the papaya) all morning and it hasn’t moved. Not one fucking inch. WHERE THE HELL ARE MY PAPAYA UPDATES? I was explicitly promised a new fruit experience, a rejuvenation of the produce protocol. Well, this feels pretty damn unrejuvenating or juvenating or venating or whatever-the-proper-prefix-reduction-sauce-word-is to me.

I WAS GUARANTEED FRUIT 2.0 BY THE END OF LUNCH. Well they didn’t actually list out lunch as a time. That’s too variable. What’s lunchtime for you isn’t necessary lunchtime for me. Which why do we schedule lunch meetings? It says a lot about us as a society that we’re willing to assume everyone crams digestible slop into their mouths at roughly noon o’clock every damn day. EVERYONE SHUT DOWN YOUR PAPAYAS, WE’RE GOING TO LUNCH. What if I’m not ready for lunch yet? WHAT IF MY PAPAYA IS STILL INSTALLING GODDAMNED UPDATES? What then, huh? COUNT ME OUT FOR LUNCH, CAROL! I’m eating at 3:30 today. Don’t ask questions. Yes, I’m updating my papaya. NO I DON’T KNOW IF I’LL HAVE TO CLICK ANYTHING WHEN IT’S DONE. Why do you think I’m still staring at this docile piece of tropical tree fruit? God Carol, you’re so fucking insensitive sometimes.

Does anyone really know what this papaya update is going to do anyway? It’s not going to turn my papaya into a fucking persimmon is it? I can’t imagine what you’d even need to change about the papaya. Why install updates? It’s seems just fine as it is. Are the updates going to make it more digestible? Seedless? Remove some bugs? They’re always saying, “oh we’re fixing some bugs with this update.” Well what bugs? Better not be spiders. Those are arachnids, you confusing-entomology-for-arachnology-asshats! Seriously, don’t call spiders bugs. Also seriously, what’s the deal with this papaya? It sure feels like nothing is happening. I just put my ear to it. Didn’t hear a sound. Not even a spider!

Everyone else has gone to lunch and now I’m just sitting here alone staring at an updating papaya like an idiot. I’m starting to get hungry, too. If only I had some updated fruit to eat… but nope. Just stuck here, foodless, alone, bored, watching my updating papaya. Sometimes papayas are amazing superfoods, brimming with vitamins and antioxidants. Other times, papaya technology just really sucks.


Potato Of The Day Episode 40

raisins in the sunLordy, lordy look who’s forty! Seriously forty of these… that’s a whole new layer of insanity for me. When we started this blog, Siya told me I wouldn’t make it past the first week doing Potato Of The Day. WELL LOL AT YOUR FACE SIYA. HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, HUH, PUNK? HOW ABOUT THEM RAISINS?
{Siya’s note: Ben, umma let you finish but, that’s just not the saying}

You know those times in your life where you just kind of go through the motions while waiting for something better to happen? This post is one of those times. I mean yeah, it’s the 40th Potato Of The Day. But 40 isn’t that great of a number, unless you’re talking malt liquor. 40 is just arbitrary milestone, a rest-stop on the highway of life where you can pat yourself on the back, think back on your legacy, and ponder where the fuck you’re actually going with this post. Honestly, I can smell that three day Memorial weekend. It’s tantalizingly close. It’s like, half a day away you guys. Why are we still staring at these damn screens, these infernal flaming LCDs! Why?!

Let’s all shout a collective fuck it, and join those raisins in the sun. Fuck these cubicles and office buildings, fuck walls and ceilings, fuck small talk and work memos. Fuck it all. Let’s run away together. You, me, those partially in-focus raisins. Let’s just drink up the weekend, swallow the sun, digest the outdoors. This isn’t a want. This is NEED. You need it. I need it. We need it.

If you’re a boss and you’re reading this right now, let your employees go! (Meaning let them go home, don’t go General Sherman on the bridges that are your employees bro. Not cool.) Free them out into the wild! Let them live! I mean seriously, how fucking productive do you really think anyone is being right now? It’s seconds to midnight on the weekend doomsday clock. Generous rounding has us there already. Do your best Moses, bossman. LET MY PEOPLE GO.

And to the rest of you, deep breaths. You’re almost there. We’re almost there. We’ll soon be dried up grapes baking in the sun. Together. Here’s to us. Here’s to 40. Here’s to freedom.

Ben’s Diary: I Tried To Squeak Out A Fart At Work But It Was NOT Silent


Dear Diary,

I tried to squeak out a fart at work but it was NOT silent.

Okay little background here, Diary. My office recently relocated to a new building which meant we had to help move a bunch of office crap into our new space. Moving always BLOWS. There’s never a time when moving is fun. This past weekend I helped my dad finish moving out of our old house. I’ve moved around a lot in my life, living in twenty some houses, but this was the house I’d lived in the longest. It bounced back and forth in possession between my mom and my dad, but it was always in the family for the past 16 or so year. You’d think this would have been an emotional moment in my life, a heartfelt goodbye to childhood. No.  You’d think wrong. It was the absolute worst because MOVING ALWAYS BLOWS. Continue reading Ben’s Diary: I Tried To Squeak Out A Fart At Work But It Was NOT Silent