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First up, I know I promised anger and I have yet to deliver. It shall be done just as soon as I decide on the format for my angry rants at Angrypiper.com. Ideally, I'd like to set it up like another blog, where y'all can comment on the things I bitch about rather than just read my pretentious blather. Still trying to work out the technical aspects of that.

For now, get your heapin' helpin' of vituperation from Dr. Mantodea over at the WOW. Pretty much everything he posts is mean-spirited. Having his head changed into that of a giant bug has made him quite the crankypants. I say serves you right for messin' with science, Doc, instead of puttin' your faith in Jesus.

Oh yeah-I did a post over there tonight too.

Second, for those who wrote in complaining my RSS feed was broken, thanks for the heads-up. Turns out it was a syntax error (fucking syntax errors!) that was making all my links point to nowhere. Thanks especially to my hetero-lifemate Malach, without whose godlike wisdom I never could have untangled the intricacies of Icerocket. It's fixed now, so click any headlines you missed and feel free to subscribe if you haven't already.

I'm gonna try like hell to get the new Book of the Week up for Friday, but it may go up a day late. Think of it as an extra day to peruse my review of Stephen King's Cell, currently up now.

As planned, I went to the 8th annual Rhode Island Highland Games last Saturday. It was a small affair, with only four or so pipe bands, maybe a dozen vendors (mostly selling jewelry) and slim pickings in the entertainment department. I returned home with a sunburn, a couple of CDs and a book on mythical piper tales.

The CDs I bought were from the band Rathkeltair, piper Neil Anderson's current project. Neil was one of the founding members of Seven Nations and I had the good fortune to meet him at the Western Mass. Highland games a few years back. I knew Neil wouldn't be at the games last Saturday because he's been called to Iraq in the middle of his tour with the band. (I'm sure the Angry Veteran can sympathize with this, i.e. being yanked into deployment unexpectedly.) Anyway, I was wondering who the band was going to have as a fill-in piper, but it turns out they didn't have anyone. Just a fiddler. I left early.

Speaking of pipers (as I often do), one of my MySpace "friends" is the Cleveland Celtic Podcast. It's done by a cool lady who clearly loves Celtic music. She just did her 11th show, now available for download. I recommend the 10th show, as it deals with-you guessed it-bagpipers! If you're curious and want a sampling of The Angry Piper's CD collection, including some solo stuff by Neil Anderson, download it and give a listen.

If you are wondering about the title of this post, it's the number that greeted my disbelieving eyes when I stepped foot on the digital scale four days ago. So long did I stare that the LED display has burned the numerals forever into my retinas. Standing there on the scale, peering over my protruding gut, I came to a conclusion: I'm a fat fuck.

Now, I have no problem with fat on other people, particularly women, but on me it's a different story. Six years ago I weighed 215 lbs. Four years ago I was 220 lbs. Now I have a spare tire and a half and I'm developing man-boobs. (Well, okay, maybe that's a bit extreme.)

I attribute this drastic weight gain to three major factors: 1) I eat too much (duh). 2) I drink too much beer. 3) I lead a sedentary, slothful existence in which I sit on my ass 90% of the time.

Suffice it to say I'm nipping this in the fucking bud, before I have a rack like Anna-Nicole Smith. Inspired by my virtual friend Tel's weight loss, I have decided to diet and exercise. What I really should do is start practicing aikido again, as that would have dropping kilt sizes in no time. Of course, I'd have to learn to fall all over again.

Aside from the health and personal vanity issues, I have two major motivations to drop the weight. First: if my kilt no longer fits me, I'll be beyond pissed off, as it cost me enough so that I won't dream of altering it. Second, I don't want to endure the taunts of Dr. Mantodea ("Hey there, tubby!") or the Angry Veteran's brother ("You look like you're getting fat there, ya fat fuck. Look at you, you fat fucking fatty fatass! Eat much, you fat bastard?")

FYI: Those quotes are pretty much verbatim, and yeah, I can do without that.

Meet the Piper in Person!!!

Here's where I'll be tomorrow, rain or shine:

http://www.riscot.org/index.htm

Look for me-I should be easy to spot. I'll be wearing a kilt.

Also, there's a new Book of the Week up at Angrypiper.com.

Job Insecurity, Part Deux

Longtime readers of this blog may recall my rant on my job from months past. If you haven’t read it you should do so now, as you’ll be better informed regarding the rest of this post. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

I’d like to say things have changed at my job, but they haven’t. There are a lot of shady dealings going on—enough to amount to a word that starts with F and rhymes with “broad”. For example (and this is only one example of many), on March 28th, 2005 I, along with all my co-workers who have health insurance through work, received a letter from our health insurance company. It was my fourth such letter since I began work at my current place of employment almost three years ago. This one was delivered via certified mail. It said my health benefits “may” be terminated due to non-payment of insurance premiums by my employer.

Ahem. Allow me to explain:

What this basically means is that my employer has been taking MY portion of the insurance premiums that I have automatically deducted each pay period from MY check, hasn’t been kicking in his portion, and hasn’t been paying the provider. So, if he’s taking my money, why the fuck isn’t it getting to where it should be on time? More important, WHERE THE FUCK IS IT GOING?

So, I called my insurance company for some answers. They were remarkably un-helpful. They couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give me any more than the bare minimum amount of information, despite the fact that this is MY FUCKING MONEY we’re talking about. Why? Because technically, even though I’m a policyholder, their client is my place of employment, and they need to protect their confidentiality. What they did tell me was this: on March 31st, my policy “might” be cancelled retroactively from March 1st. That’s because on March 1st, my premium was due, and my boss didn’t pay it on time. In fact, as of the 28th, which is when I got the certified letter and when I made the call, he still hadn’t paid it. So, if I had gone to the doctor’s office, or got into an accident and required immediate medical attention, or had an X-ray or MRI or something on, say, March 15th, when I thought I was covered, I might possibly NOT be covered because this assclown I work for didn’t pay my insurance on time, despite the fact that he’s been taking MY FUCKING MONEY all along. The insurance company also told me that they sent this letter certified because the fourth time’s the charm. This time if they didn’t get their money by the end of the month I was officially without insurance. They let it slide the first three times, but I guess enough’s enough.

One of my co-workers didn’t take this news well. Rather than call the insurance company as I did later, she flipped out immediately. The Big Boss—the one who’s ultimately responsible for the insurance and who likes to play grabass with all the girls 25 years younger than him—wasn’t around. My boss, the asshat, is the toady who makes excuses for the Big Boss. He was on vacation in Texas that week. So my co-worker—who for the purposes of this blogpost I’ll call “The Bulldog”—calls the Big Boss’s second-in-command: his secretary, who I’ll call “No. 2”, for no particular reason. Honest.

The Bulldog calls No. 2 and screams at her on the phone; when she doesn’t get the answers she wants she hangs up on her. No. 2 comes downstairs, pissed off, and a shouting match ensues ‘twixt she and the Bulldog. Everyone in the office (except me, see below) gets involved. The threat of “calling the Labor Board” is made. Then the word “douchebag” is used.

(For the record, I’m out of the office on a home visit, doing my job, when this occurs. I don’t know anything about the letter yet, and I won’t hear about the chaos at the office until hours later.)

Predictably, when one handles an administrative issue such as the non-payment of insurance premiums by calling to the person who can get it fixed a “douchebag”, the result is less than satisfactory. Also, the original issue, i.e. the fact that the Big Boss is TAKING OUR FUCKING MONEY AND NOT PAYING OUR PREMIUMS WITH IT, gets lost, and it becomes all about unprofessional behavior in the office.

Not that I disagree with The Bulldog’s righteous indignation. In fact, when I got the letter I was ready to disjoint the Big Boss like a rotisserie chicken. But there’s a way to handle things.

Here’s how it all hashed out, a month ago: The premiums were paid at the last possible minute. I still have insurance. So far I haven’t got letter #5 (and I’d better not—fucking ever). Two of my co-workers, including The Bulldog, who referred to No. 2 as a “douchebag” and another who was also apparently too loud and/or antagonistic, were suspended for two days without pay. If everything I’ve heard is accurate, The Bulldog should have been fired, but then again, the Big Boss should be in jail for embezzlement, so I guess it works out evenly.

However, as of today, my agency’s uppance has come.

The State has come back for a follow-up, just to make sure we’re doing everything we said we would. Are we? The short answer is no.

My boss the asshat didn’t, as a rule, promote anyone to any kind of supervisory level, because he wants to be the King. That is, until he found out The State likes supervisors, because their work hours count for more with regards to financial reimbursement. So he relented and selected a nurse and a social worker and made them “coordinators” for their respective paradigms. (No, he didn’t ask me, but that’s ok. I take it as a sure sign he recognizes my competence.) “Coordinators” don’t make any more money and have no power at all, as being a supervisor under my boss is pretty much like playing the triangle in an orchestra. They get the title, and that’s it.

They’re an inspiration to the rest of us. We should aspire to be more like them in word and deed. Who is the social work coordinator, you ask? Why, The Bulldog, of course!

As I said many months back, my boss the asshat let go the one person who had a handle on The State and their fickle whims. He felt threatened by her competence. He was (correctly) afraid she’d make him look superfluous. The unfortunate side effect of not hiring competent people and not keeping people who are competent is that it’s completely against the best interests of the agency. As a result, no one has trained any new staff. Technically, training staff is the Program Director’s (i.e. Asshat’s) job, but he doesn’t do it. He doesn’t want anyone else to do it either, because he thinks that whoever’s doing the training will be seen as a supervisor. And he kinda always felt that what The State mandated was pretty much optional (especially if he felt it got in the way of making money), despite the fact it’s definitely NOT optional, that they can shut us down anytime, and they’re just looking for an excuse.

They won’t have to look hard this week. Several of the nurses I work with couldn’t find their asses with both hands, and the social workers, myself included, have been told so much contradictory information over the past few months that NO ONE is doing the same thing in the same way. Patient charts look like total butt; a result of the crazy amount of staff turnover my agency experiences as a matter of course. No one gets fired, especially the people who should be, but all the good ones leave because of the shenanigans that are routine. Who wants to put their license on the line committing fraud for a jackoff (i.e. The Big Boss) who has an assload of money to begin with?

I’ve been looking for a job for a long time, but haven’t found one yet. That’s ok with me, because I’ve come to some peaceful realizations: 1) I can, if necessary, collect unemployment if the agency closes, though I’ve never done so in my life and I‘d much rather have a job. 2) If my insurance is cancelled, I will sue the living Christ out of the Big Boss. I called the labor board already. With the stuff I know, he really, really, REALLY shouldn’t fuck with me on this, or anything else. 3) I don’t want to do this job or any kind of social work any longer. I’m done with it. I know what I want to do. I just need to find a way to do it.

In other words, all those who care about The Angry Piper and fear for his financial status should rest easy. I appreciate the support, but I’ve got this one handled perfectly. I am not in the least bit concerned, and neither should you be. I’ll post an update at the end of the week and let y’all know if I’m still employed.

Or maybe sooner, depending on The State. :)

More WOW, and More Anger (I Promise)

Lately, I have been lax in my anger. It’s true. I know it, and you know it.

I'm supposed to be The Angry Piper, for fuck's sake. I have all but handed over my rage to Dr.Mantodea, The Angry Veteran, and now Angryman. But you all know who was angry first.

Of course, that doesn’t count for shit; no one stays on top forever. To that end I have turned my attention to recalling my hatred, bile and rage from wherever they’ve been on vacation. Expect the first of many Angry Rants within the week at Angrypiper.com.

There’s a new Book of the Week up as of yesterday. Friday updates resume this week on the 12th.

My MySpace profile currently features music by The Tossers, a Chicago-based Irish/punk band. Check them out. No piper, but I like them a lot. Hey Malach, they sound like The Pogues to you, too? (By the way, I’m still in need of friends. I can't bear feeling less liked than Malach.)

In other news: Man, The WOW is getting huge.

It’s been officially up on Wikipedia for almost two weeks, and the blog itself has only existed since the 20th of April. I’m very happy to be a part of it, and that alone should be enough to get your lazy arses over there to check out what's doin'. But just in case it’s not, in addition to yours truly you can also find Lovable Crackpot and Elderly Widow-Chaser Hobbs von Wackamole; Resident Mental Health Specialist Dr. Robert J.Murk; Athiest, Physical Freak and Misfit of Science Dr. Mantodea; Escaped Mental Patient Malach the Merciless, Extraterrestrial Secretary of Agriculture Spacefarmer, Disgruntled Secret Agent The Angry Veteran, and Crystal-Polishing, Friend to Faeries Tree-hugger Just Me. Plus a lot of other people I don’t know (yet), but who seem pretty cool and intelligent. You never know who will post when; we’re averaging several posts a day and we already have 82 posts! That’s more posts in less than three weeks than I had on my blog in over a year!

It’s our hope that the WOW will become a huge online community, with lots of people sharing ideas and information. We want lots of input. So far we’re off to a great start; our posts generate lots of comments and debate. You don't have to be a contributor to comment on anything you read on the WOW. There’s something for everyone, a wide range of topics both serious and funny; but if you feel we left something out, you could always contribute something yourself. Thus far we have 19 contributors and counting. It’s wicked easy to be a contributor: just send an email to rubbersuitman@rubbersuitstudios.com and ask to be one. We’re not a clique and we turn down almost nobody, so long as you can express yourself intelligently. (Actually, that’s more of a guideline; we’ve got Malach, after all, and we’d even take Joey Polanski.)

(Just kidding, Joey.)