I just received my first stern "talking-to" at work. I can hardly believe it took almost 5 months, but these folks are pretty laid back and forgiving.

I guess it's hard to consider it a "stern talking-to," as it was from the CEO and he's a little fucked uhh� I mean, eccentric.

To borrow a line from a movie that I only admit to watching for Sandy Bullock (her bestest friends and stalkers call her "Sandy"), Dennis Hopper (while holding satchel of $3 million) says, "Poor people are crazy, Jack. I'm eccentric."

CEO guy is the millionaire playboy that you read about, building a multi-million dollar company with his bare hands, living in a loft downtown, throwin-the-bone to Broncos cheerleaders and coming to work in a Harrier Jump Jet.

Okay, he didn't do that. But, that's what I would do if I was so rich that I literally SHIT money.

Feeling crappy and sleepy, as well as slappy and creepy (what I originally typed), I was getting coffee this morning and saw our Senior Executive V.P. King of I.T. getting coffee too. He asked how the company golf tournament went.

Me: It was cool, I didn't hit anyone with the cart� 'cept Kathy and it was just her knee. Only a bruise, she's a champ, she'll play through it.

VP: Yeah, I wish I could've been there to defend my title.

Me: Waittaminute, you weren't there? You live for freakin' golf, where could you have possibly been?

VP: I� uh� had another engagement.

Me: Dirty Whore� you were playing in another tournament weren't you?

VP: Well yeah, but it was scheduled waaaay in advance, and I couldn't get out of it.

Me: Bullshit. Admit it, you're just a Dirty Golf Whore.

VP: Hey, I'll be at next year's�

Me: BAH! Golf Whore!

This is when Eccentric-CEO-guy comes in.

CEO: What's going on in here?

VP: Oh, nothing. JuddHole's just expressing his disappointment that I missed the company golf outing.

CEO: Oh, you mean the tournament I won. Heh. (pause, shakes head) But, I heard shouting. What was the shouting about?

Me: I shared with the VP what he REALLY is�

CEO (confused look): �well, WHAT is he?

Me (glaring at VP, in a low gravelly voice): 'E knows wha' 'e is�

CEO dismisses VP and pulls me aside to tell me that, in a company this size, it's not cool for me, LowlyDeveloperBoy, to go around calling our high ranking V.P. a "Golf Whore." Or an "Anything-Whore", for that matter.

I asked if he was just sticking up for the VP because that's his little brother.

I was told that respectable companies, like ours, don't conduct themselves this way and that I need to show more respect, yadda, yadda, yadda�

Me (nodding whipped-dog-like): Sorry� I'm the new guy and I was out of line. On on unrelated note, who won last year's golf tourney?

CEO (hesitating): Um� well� VP did.

Me: Unh hunh, and if he were at ours and not out being a Golf Wh� uh� PLAYING at another tourney, what are the chances that he'd win it again� instead of YOU winning?

CEO (quickly shaking head): That's not what's important. What's important is� um� no yelling, "Whore" and stuff.

CEO then scurried off dejectedly.

Poor bastard. Bested by the younger sibling.

I'd be cranky too if my younger, lower-executive-ranking brother regularly smoked my ass at golf.

Thus far today I've called several higher-ups, "Burrito Whore," "Gumball Whore," and "HomeEquityLoan Whore," just to see if I could.

No one seemed to care.

Not even CEO guy.

Although he probably already forgot reprimanding me.

He's eccentric like that.

---

Speaking of sibling rivalry, my big brother is coming into town tonight from Houston.

My older, wiser, much better looking, TEXAN of a big brother is coming, sans wife and kids, to hang with me and the Mom, flyfish, golf, and drink copious amounts of beer with his larger, far-bigger-of-a-pussy, sibling.

Yeah, you read it right�

He's a fucking Texan.

The guy was born and raised Montana stock, just like myself and the Girl, yet the exact second he landed in that accursed state (hours after his H.S. graduation), he became one of THEM.

The last time I saw him he was professionally groomed, professionally tanned, wearing a shirt that cost more than all of my clothes combined, had a Gold Rolex on, a diamond mounted in his already-gawdy Gold Texas A&M class ring, and had $200 shoes on.

While he was sitting behind the counter of the SALVAGE YARD he manages.

He hollered, "Whull, hey-a liddle bruh-ther!"

I simply stared for a moment, thinking, "WE'RE from the same womb? No. Fucking. Way."

We proceeded to drink massive amounts of beer while he got all misty-eyed about his beloved Number 3's death.

"Christ," I remember thinking, "NASCAR too? What's next? Shewtin' shawtguns off at a weddin'? Porkin' farm animals? A 23-gallon hat? The PRESIDENCY?!? WHAT?!?"

The predominant reason I use, "Texan" like it's a dirty word?

That goddamed state took the guy who taught me how to catch fish by hand, swim in 56-degree water, track mountain lions, and rock climb and turned him into a drawling, cheap-beer-swilling, shiny-Gold-wearing� *shudder* Texan.

Pity that I've only got a week to de-Texify him.

I've already planned on how to "lose" his bags and force him to wear the Carhartt's we grew up in. Mine are going to be a little� a LOT baggy, but that's even better. One $30 pair of workboots, a stained Montana Grizzlies hat, and a shirt that says, "Moose Drool Brown Ale" later, he may be well on his way back to his roots.

If all else fails, I'm smearing him in raw meat and dropping him off in Mountain Lion country. He'll get his hunting/evading skills back at least.

Or die, I guess.

Either way, he won't be a TEXAN anymore.