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October 2007 - I get a phone call from Rafael and Lisa at Cartoon Network saying that they want to make my pilot. I'm happy.

December 2007 - Not entirely based on the October phone call, I move into an apartment I can't afford.

January 2008 - October 2008 - My bank account withers away.

September 2008 - After a year of waiting, Lisa at Cartoon Network calls me and says that Rafael has changed departments. She introduces me to Curtis. We begin to finally talk about the pilot.

November 2008 - After numerous outlines and premature notes, I write the first draft of the pilot. It is regarded by my friends as a pretty good first draft.

December 10, 2008 - The first notes come about three weeks after the first draft. They are not bad notes.

11:09 December 17, 2008 - I get a call from Lisa and Curtis at Cartoon Network to discuss the notes so I can get started on draft two. Instead Lisa informs me that they've decided to pass on my pilot. She blames it on the shake-up. The phone call lasts no more than five minutes and already all of 2009 is instantly ruined.

I quickly send emails or text messages to every person I am somehow obligated to in any way, canceling whatever obligation I previously had.

People begin to send their condolences. I'd rather feel sorry for myself. I tell them all that I'm going to have to move. I'm thirty years old. I pay twelve hundred dollars a month in rent and make less than sixteen at a night job. I think about taking up smoking again. Quickly I remember that I have a quarter bottle of vodka sitting on top of the refrigerator.

This is probably a tired topic for most of you, but I just can't get over it. Every time I think of it my blood boils. I hate everything about flying. Fuck flying. Cocksuckers, the lot of them.

And it didn't used to be this way. I used to be completely apathetic about it. I didn't care one way or the other. And now everything fucking sucks. Specifically, the checked bag fee. FUCK THAT. Argh. I'm so mad. I can't even think.

I'm paying you five hundred dollars to fly me somewhere. That money is yours. Done deal. You have the money, I have the ticket. Then I go to the airport and you spring this fifteen dollar bullshit ticky tack fuck you fee on me. My bag is too big to fit in the wallet size overhead compartment so I have to give you money. There's no recourse. None. You rent a row boat, get in the boat, they're about to send you down the river but first they hold you hostage for the oar.

I just went to United's website to see if they're doing this shit too. Of course they are. They probably invented it. They're the leaders of sucking their own dicks and spitting it in your face. That was too gross, sorry. I just wish that United.com had a comment section under their articles so that everyone could write ugly hate shit and the recipient would actually deserve it for once.

The worst is the justification, they blame it on gas prices? Right? Is that it? Somehow bags weigh more when you store them under the cabin. Somehow something magic happens when your bag is small enough to fit under the seat. It doesn't exist anymore. It weighs zero.

Is it really the gas prices -- which are down again, so fuck off with the fee -- or is it just that they're terrible at running their company and need to nickel and dime fuck you? Either way you start boarding and all the cheap assholes who didn't pony up to check their shit are trying to cram it into the compartment and it's NOT GOING TO FIT AND EVERYONE ELSE HERE, ASSHOLE, PAID THE FUCKING MONEY. So keep fucking trying to cram it in and waiving you hands around like somebody just told you the sky was green, and you can't fucking believe it.

Fuck. So the poor flight attendants have to inform the guy that they'll take the bag and put it below and THAT CHEAP FUCKER just got out of the fifteen dollar fee. That fucking cock sucker who probably passes you moral people on the shoulder during traffic jams gets to sit down and drink his free coke with a fucking smug grin on his face because he's a selfish fucking asshole who just got his shiny fucking nickel back.

I'm mad. I shouldn't cuss this much.

So anyway. When I go home for Christmas, I'm taking one duffel bag with one shirt in it and week's worth of socks and underwear. Fucking United. God damn it. Get ready for another bail out.

I know it's cliche to be depressed on your birthday. Especially your 30th. I would have been fine, but two days ago I woke up and decided to deal with my finances. If you want to be happy on your birthday don't decide to deal with your finances. Even more so on the heels of a decision to resort to working nights for high school wages.

The details are boring, but let me just ask, what is the point of overdraft protection if you get charged for it? What's "protective" about paying for shit? They should call it "overdraft services" because I'm used to paying when I hear a word like "service" being thrown around. Then again, I'm not sure where I ever got the impression that protection was free. Oh wait, I remember, it was when some banker called me and said "If you set up overdraft protection you won't have to pay the overdraft fee." Silly fucking stupid me.

This process came to a head today, having resorted to the smallest of problems after being continually turned away at every big-problem turn. It was time to argue over brass tax. To split hairs. To sweat the small stuff. To start a fight. I called Wells Fargo, frothing at the mouth.

Me "I don't understand why you're charging me for this. Can you waive some of those fees? If I'd have known I was getting charged I would have put more money in my account."
Bitchy Customer Service Cunt "No unfortunately that's not something that we do. I can transfer you to the credit card department."
Me "Okay."
BCSC "Okay is it okay if I put you on hold while I transfer you?"
Me "Yes."
BCSC "Okay, and I see that your credit card account is over its limit so you're going to have to talk to them anyway."
Me "Great."
BCSC "...Yeah. Is it okay if I put you on hold while I transfer you?"
Me "YES."

Hold.

Bitchy Customer Service Cunt 2 "Hi thank you for calling Wells Fargo can I have you name?"
Me "Wade Randolph."
BCSC2 "Thank you Mr. Randolph how can I help you?"
Me "I don't understand why you're charging me for overdraft protection. Can you waive some of those fees? If I'd have known I was getting charged I would have put more money in my account."
BCSC2 "No unfortunately that's not something we do."
Me "Great."
BCSC2 "You see if you didn't have overdraft protection you would have had to pay 35 dollars blah blah blah when it's over blah blah blah 20 dollars blah blah 10 dollars blah blah 50 dollars blah blah 15 dollars blah blah blah 100 dollars blah blah 25 dollars blah blah. So technically we saved you over 70 dollars."
Me "No, you didn't because if I'd have known you charge me for this I would have just put more money in the account. There's 700 dollars in my savings account just sitting there."
BCSC2 "Well we don't overturn these charges. Blah blah blah blah..."

As she blathers on I grow completely apathetic about everything in the world. Two days ago I woke up two inches wider with a trillion less hairs on the top of my head and this lady is talking about percentages and justification. 2 million more people are going to be jobless next year and I don't care. Obama has hired all former Clinton Staffers and Hilary's on her way to Secretary of State, and that's not CHANGE and I don't care. I can't care. I'm totally over caring. Bail out the fucking automotive industry who gives a shit. My problems are a drop in the bucket and right now that drop is drowning me. I'm being waterboarded by the scratchy voice of a tired woman in Utah currently hating her life as much as I can only assume we all hate ours.

"...blah blah blah."
Me "Yeah, I don't even know why we're having this conversation. If you can't do anything why am I still talking to you?"
BCSC2 (Turns on super extreme bitch mode) "Okay is that all you needed?"
Me "Yes?"
BCSC2 "Are there any other questions you had?"
Me "No. Have a good day."
BCSC2 "You too."

We both fight back tears as we hang up. Is this all there is? Simultaneously we take sips of our respective coffee mugs. Things are written on them in bright colors to make us feel better about the stagnation around us. For a beat, we are tricked. The caffeine helps us move on. She takes another call from another asshole in another state. I bury my head in the sand.

I'm logging again. I haven't had to do this since 2006 and now here I am again. Holy shit. That's about the most depressing shit I've ever written.

I started today. It's a night job. We go in at 7 and stay until 3. But today Abed trained me -- holy shit, THAT'S the most depressing shit I've ever written -- so I had to go in early. I'm home now.

I'm logging a show about those little girls who do beauty pageants, and today I was on like a fucking 37 million inch monitor. So now, not only do I have an eroded sole, I think I also contracted radiation of the face. It was so bright and so big but all the words were so small. The girls were all so bright and so shiny, but so, God damned, small.

I'm going to be late on purpose tomorrow so I don't have to use that monitor. Not sure how I'll deal with the content.

I'm fucking fat now. I can't wear t-shirts anymore. In three days I turn thirty years old and the way I make money is, I write down every single mind-numbing, excruciating, detail of the process in which sweet innocent little girls are permanently developmentally traumatized so that someone younger than me can mold that pain into a viable commercially acceptable twenty two minutes, in order to be able to sell detergent during the other eight.

I started today. Technically I'm still supposed to be there. Cartoon Network okay'd my outline so now I'm writing the script. Can't think of a better time to begin writing than the first week you start a night job and fuck your mind. That empty gassy feeling in your stomach when you stay up all night and drink only soda and eat only fruit snacks. This can't be good for you.

I need the break from my cat though. She's either sleeping or whining. It's a diet. She refuses to get used to it. Meow meow meow all fucking day. I mean, fuck it. I'd rather have a fat cat than be constantly irritated by a skinny cat, but I just can't make myself overfeed her. Meow meow fucking meow meow. Pacing around. Looking for anything. Scratching herself raw. I don't know what to do. Just keep hitting snooze until it's time to leave again. Neglect the things that will get you out of this situation.

See you in 2009. I'll be fatter and balder and still treading water.

You've probably heard that Danny Jelinek is making no less than one THOUSAND commercials for the Doritos Crash the Super Bowl contest.

Well, guess who told him about the contest. ME! Willy, Eric and I got together with the help of Pluimer and Cass and made this rocking spot that shits all over Danny's pathetic entries.

Congrats to Obama. I guess this means that America has about 8 million more hipsters than we do old people. Our first black president and all it took was a shitload of American Apparel t-shirts. Good for us.

Tuesday I woke up and hit snooze but I couldn't snooze because the smell of burning rubber was emanating from somewhere. I got up, couldn't find it. It was like the smell of an engine burning out, times one million.

I called my friend and neighbor Drew. He came over and couldn't even enter my apartment because the smell was so strong. My cat threw up. We couldn't figure it out. We decided I should call the Gas company, because who else can you really call?

I called and told them it didn't smell like gas but they said they'd send a guy anyway. He came after about an hour, checked for gas leaks, was puzzled by the smell as well, and left.

So I called my Dad, because what the fuck, and he said "Call the fire department," because what the fuck. I did. They sent a dude. I was really afraid they were going to send a bunch of dudes with sirens and large trucks. But they didn't. Just the one guy.

I told him I thought maybe there were bad wires because my kitchen light shorted out a couple weeks ago and my slumlords haven't come to fix it yet. I also told him it might be the fridge, which I had unplugged just in case. He smelled the fridge and said "It's the fridge," on his way out the door.

I turned a light on in the kitchen and the wall behind the fridge was scorched black. When I plugged the fridge in again, it immediately started on fire. Real fire, not just melting wires. It was scary.

My birthday is coming up. So my parents sent me to Sears where a nice gay man helped me pick out a new refrigerator. It came yesterday. It's smart and black. Sort of like this guy:



Suck my dick.

I'm sitting here waiting for Cartoon Network to pick an idea for the pilot so I can actually start working on it. My cat is sitting here, staring at me, meowing. I don't know what to do. She has food. She's so bored she's resorted to just meowing at me.

I have a laser pointer. She likes that for about two minutes, then stops chasing it. Also, that's two minutes I have to only be doing that. You can't laser point and watch TV, otherwise you could blind your cat. Then she'd be permanently bored.

I put some paper bags around. Cats like to get in paper bags and stuff. She just rubbed up against them for a beat then went and sat down.

She has a few toy balls she ignores.

The highlight of her day is when I open the refrigerator and she walks over and has the cold air blow on her asshole. Sorry if that's crude, she's a cat, she doesn't know any better.