"Crisis on Infinite Blogs"
In what I can only call a particularly strange week for blogging, it was revealed to me -- in the most hilarious way possible -- that the office has been reading my blog for a week, meaning I'd gone from the guy nobody knew anything about to a person to whom they had unfettered access to basically every thought I've had in my head for the last three years in the blink of an eye.
I was -- to put it mildly -- mortified, setting off a series of events I must reluctantly describe as "unfortunate":
I begged Prewitt to delete the blog over the phone -- because the Spider-Hole doesn't get internet access, or particularly good cellphone reception for that matter -- in a conversation remarkably similar to the opening sequence of War Games, where I'm the guy shouting at the other to turn the key and launch the atomic bomb with a gun pressed to Prewitt's head while he's sobbing that he doesn't want to be the one to end the world.
When I begged Erin to do the same thing, not only did she refuse, she proved that giving her the password at all was a mistake, as she then went on to use that knowledge to post a message warning everybody about the blog's pending destruction --which pretty much defeated the purpose.
Brent, of course, proved himself the only real friend I've got. He would have pushed the button with little remorse and no longrunning debate, if not for the fact he had to go to work until early Saturday morning.
Even if I hadn't fallen asleep before the Brent called so we could tele-conference The End of the Story, only to find that my Archenemy had in fact, changed my password, effectively hijacking my blog -- I'm pretty sure I couldn't have gone through with it. Ultimately the dynamic duo of Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach that saved my blog.
At first I was a little embarassed. Obviously people are going to think I'm a showboat and a little bit of a prick. But then I realized, that's me. I wrote those things. I did those things. (Well, I didn't actually kill any interns and that plastic knife taked to the cubicle is purely decorative, to say nothing of the fact that that second coffee room actually has run out of French Roast on occasion, but you know what I mean.) If Steve Zissou can live with that, what choice do I have?
And in the post script for this strange story of a classic Clark Freakout, when I told Caleb that Erin had taken over my blog, he said he wished we had really run with this, and I became rather enamored with the idea of continuing with this thread as a hoax over the next couple of posts, making my triumphant return in my 250th post. But that would have taken Erin from her actual blog, which would have been a drastic disservice to her readers. To say nothing of the fact that I would have had to call her about it, and I'd already called her, like, six times in two days.
I'd hate for her to think I was obsessed or something.
NEXT:
Spasmotica
In what I can only call a particularly strange week for blogging, it was revealed to me -- in the most hilarious way possible -- that the office has been reading my blog for a week, meaning I'd gone from the guy nobody knew anything about to a person to whom they had unfettered access to basically every thought I've had in my head for the last three years in the blink of an eye.
I was -- to put it mildly -- mortified, setting off a series of events I must reluctantly describe as "unfortunate":
I begged Prewitt to delete the blog over the phone -- because the Spider-Hole doesn't get internet access, or particularly good cellphone reception for that matter -- in a conversation remarkably similar to the opening sequence of War Games, where I'm the guy shouting at the other to turn the key and launch the atomic bomb with a gun pressed to Prewitt's head while he's sobbing that he doesn't want to be the one to end the world.
When I begged Erin to do the same thing, not only did she refuse, she proved that giving her the password at all was a mistake, as she then went on to use that knowledge to post a message warning everybody about the blog's pending destruction --which pretty much defeated the purpose.
Brent, of course, proved himself the only real friend I've got. He would have pushed the button with little remorse and no longrunning debate, if not for the fact he had to go to work until early Saturday morning.
Even if I hadn't fallen asleep before the Brent called so we could tele-conference The End of the Story, only to find that my Archenemy had in fact, changed my password, effectively hijacking my blog -- I'm pretty sure I couldn't have gone through with it. Ultimately the dynamic duo of Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach that saved my blog.
At first I was a little embarassed. Obviously people are going to think I'm a showboat and a little bit of a prick. But then I realized, that's me. I wrote those things. I did those things. (Well, I didn't actually kill any interns and that plastic knife taked to the cubicle is purely decorative, to say nothing of the fact that that second coffee room actually has run out of French Roast on occasion, but you know what I mean.) If Steve Zissou can live with that, what choice do I have?
And in the post script for this strange story of a classic Clark Freakout, when I told Caleb that Erin had taken over my blog, he said he wished we had really run with this, and I became rather enamored with the idea of continuing with this thread as a hoax over the next couple of posts, making my triumphant return in my 250th post. But that would have taken Erin from her actual blog, which would have been a drastic disservice to her readers. To say nothing of the fact that I would have had to call her about it, and I'd already called her, like, six times in two days.
I'd hate for her to think I was obsessed or something.
NEXT:
Spasmotica
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