An email.

To: Sheridan, Tom
From: Brodavich, Kyle

Tom:

I’m writing this with no small amount of egg on my face. It appears that you and the rest of the management team have become aware of some statements I made online that reflect poorly on our company.

Right off the bat, I’d like to say that I’m very, very sorry that I reviewed our workplace as “hell on Earth” on Foursquare. I should realize that while social media allows us to communicate with our friends more easily, a great deal of what we say is available to the world at large and that means that clients, coworkers and prospective hires are likely to see our statements without context. They wouldn’t know that our air conditioning was on the fritz at exactly the same time that the Donelson lawsuit went down, so they might view my commentary as more than a bit of spur-of-the-moment venting that should have stayed under my breath.

It was highly unprofessional and you can rest assured that it won’t happen again.

I’d also like to personally apologize for calling you and the rest of the executive staff “a clique of raging fucktard douchebags with delusions of Hitlerian grandeur” on Twitter, which was then automatically posted to my Facebook and LinkedIn accounts. It was an unforgivable slip of the tongue born out of my frustration with our current deadlines and how project management seems to be slipping across the board. It’s a holistic issue that impacts every aspect of the company and I should have taken steps to address it before allowing my feelings to take over.

I should not have taken it out on you, Devin, Gary or Stephanie. You have all proven to be consistently good managers and executives, capable of guiding and inspiring our team even when beset with issues such as our continuing timeline slippage. I vented my feelings at you when you are not the problem – I am.

Finally, I should be much more careful about what photos I post to my Flickr account and the company’s pool and how they are tagged. There is no reason at all that Sally in account services should be tagged with “fat,” “chubby,” “BBW,” or “Blubbo the She-Whale.” It was hurtful and I have taken steps to remove any personal insults from the many iPhone photos taken and uploaded directly from the summer picnic.

However, that thing about the Irish office? No way am I taking that shit back. Those potato-humping, bog-dwelling, indecipherable mick fucks know what they fucking did.

There are maybe three people out there that get this. And they think I’m an idiot, too.

From the archives of Sterling Cooper Draper T’Vol

Garfield Minus Garfield Plus Chewbacca

RJ sent me this picture. The rest is my fault.

Wonder Woman’s New Costume, Explained

THRIFT SHOP FIND: British TV Themes

You can blame Tom Peyer for this one.

The Perils and Thrills of Web 2.0

Here are three Star Wars emoticons that you can use!

Yoda: <(-_-)>

Jabba The Hutt: ((-___-))

IG-88: ||

Three excerpts from NIGHTFALL: a STAR TREK novel by Kevin Church

About three things, I was absolutely positive. First: Sarek was a Vulcan. Second: There was a part of him — and i didn’t know how dominant that part might be — that found my kind utterly illogical and frustrating. And Third:, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him

Page 14:

As I examined them across the Vulcan Science Academy’s cafeteria, one of them looked up and met my gaze, this time with plain-spoken curiosity in an expression I could have sworn was unreadable to anyone else. As I looked swiftly away, it seemed to me that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation.

“Which one is the boy with the straight, slate-colored hair?” I asked. I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me, but without the disdain the other Vulcans had plainly written on their face — he had an ever-so-curious expression. I looked down again.

“That’s Sarek. He’s gorgeous, of course, but don’t waste your time. He doesn’t date. Apparently none of Terran girls are logical enough for him.” She sniffed, a clear case of sour grapes. I wondered when he’d turned her down.

I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at him again. His face was turned back to the PADD he was holding and he was speaking to the Vulcan to his left, but I thought his eyebrow appeared lifted, as if he were smiling inside.

After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful — even the big, brawny one. It was unsettling to watch. The one named Sarek didn’t look at me again.

Page 120:

“It’s nightfall,” Sarek murmured, looking at the western horizon, obscured as it was by Mount Seleya. His voice was thoughtful, as if his mind were somewhere far away. I stared at him as he gazed unseeingly out of the hovercar’s windscreen.

I was still staring when his eyes suddenly shifted back to mine. His pupils had already dilated a bit in response to the rapidly-encroaching night.

“It’s the quietest time of day for Vulcans,” he said, answering the unspoken question in my eyes. “The easiest time to meditate and center ourselves. But also the most sobering in many ways… the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so predictable on Earth, isn’t it? Your nights do not have dangers like the le-matya or dust storms along the Forge as the terminator crawls across the globe and the cool air collides with the warm ground.”

“I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars.” I frowned. “Not that you see them here much.”

His eyebrow went up slightly, and the mood abruptly lightened.

Page 257:

“Thank you. But there’s something else I feel should be mentioned.” Sarek didn’t frown, exactly. His mouth became a thinner line.

I waited patiently.

“He called you pretty,” he finally continued, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. “That’s an understatement. You’re … very aesthetically pleasing at this moment.”

I laughed.

“You might be a little biased.”

“I do not believe that to be the case. Besides, I have excellent eyesight, like all of my people.”

We were twirling again, my feet on his as he held me close. “So are you going to explain the reason for all of this?” I wondered. He looked down at me, unreadable, and I glared meaningfully at the crepe paper.

He considered for a moment, and then changed direction, spinning me through the crowd to the back door of the gym. I caught a glimpse of T’pril and Stolok dancing, their heads cocked ever so slightly. Jessica waved, and I smiled back quickly. The slight Andorian Liari was there, too, looking blissfully happy in the arms of George Kirk; she didn’t look away from his eyes, a head above hers. T’lin and Soltar, T’pau, glaring toward us, with Tuval; I could name every face that spiraled past me. And then we were outdoors, in the still warm, yet dim light of a fading sunset on a world light-years from my native Earth.

“Nightfall.” I heard Sarek say quietly to himself.

Anthony Bourdain is appearing on the March 10th episode of YO GABBA GABBA.

“Trotters, you ever have those, Toodee? This little village in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, on the Amazon, I’m there shooting my show and they’ve got to eat all the animal, they’ve not got a Tesco or Safeway or anything nearby, right? So I sit down with the camera guys and…why are you shuddering?

“I’m sorry, is that out of your American fast-food safe zone? Does it freak you out that people in other parts of the world eat intestines and organs and even brains? Maybe if McDonald’s told you there were brains in those McNuggets you and the rest of these freaky megapuppets snarf down between takes here, maybe then you’d accept them as being part of the deal when we choose to consume another animal’s flesh.”

I almost forgot it’s Ash Wednesday.

Search Engine Inquiries That Keep Me Awake At Night: #1 in a series.

Excuse me, Netflix?

NBC, your 10 o’clock slot is once again empty. I can help.

“In the criminal justice system, primate-based offenses are considered especially awesome. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these ridiculous felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Simian Victims Unit. These are their stories.”

SHAAAAWWWTAAAY!

Jill’s Last Day At Vincetti Import-Export.

IMPROVING THE CLASSICS: The Old School Edition

Blame Dorian.