Well, dear reader, you know what they say. All good things must come to an end. Of course, all bad things must come to an end, too. And whether you've viewed my shift captaining this column as a refreshing jolt of whimsy or an irritating train wreck, it is, nevertheless, time to tightly close those ojos and wait for the inevitable death rattle of my tenure.
Why, you ask? Well, lots of reasons, actually, but mostly because I hate you. Just kidding, friend. Don't cry. It's all a part of the circle of life. It's even in the Bible. Gospel according to Elton John 3:16, I believe. Look it up. In the meantime, peruse the following exit interview.
Employee: Brian "Filthy McNasty" McManus
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What did you like about your job?
What's not to like? Just look at the description: Go out, imbibe, meet people and get paid. It's something like that, anyway. On top of that, it furnished me with a built-in icebreaker. "I write a nightlife column for the Press. Let's talk so I can make fun of you in next week's issue." Lay that line on a couple honeys and, let me just say do the words sweet action mean anything to you? Because they don't to me. Just thought I'd ask.
What did you not like about your job?
There were a couple of things, believe it or not. First, there is no such thing as a Blockbuster Night at this job. No weekend to hang up the drinking shoes (someone invent these, please now!) and hole up inside the cave because you don't feel "pretty." Suck it up, bitch. Now go annoy strangers.
Second, the public relations monsters. In this job, I got to stare into the eye of the horned beast in the form of 25 junk e-mails a day imploring me to check out the newest and most boring way to spend my weekend. Some clubs have special promotions every night of the week (Miracle Monday! Two-ply toilet paper give-away Tuesday! Wicked Wednesday!) and I got to hear about all of them for a while anyway. Thank you, Yahoo, for the block sender function.
Specify the most satisfying part of your job.
God, forgive me for sounding too cheesedick, but, honestly, it's the number of great people I got to meet. People like Jeff Kaplan and Sammy Relford, who really want to do something for Houston, a city they love. But, Jeff, stop writing for 002. Seriously, that rag is embarrassing. (That, friends, is what's called a perfectly executed parting shot.) Envy sucks nard, too! (That, however, was simply childish.)
Specify the least satisfying part of your job.
For every star like Jeff Kaplan, there are ten dreaming dildos with their heads in the clouds who fancy themselves a Houston version of Steve Rubell. To all of them I say this: To revolutionize Houston nightlife, you need more than a penchant for bad clothing and a nasty cocaine habit, stud.
What made you decide to leave?
My wife got an amazing job in Philadelphia that pays a boatload of money and offers health insurance. That's something Press contributor Greg Ellis calls the "musician's transfer" phase of life. Smart. It could be called the "drinker's transfer" too, I suppose. My liver all but begged me to move East once talk of HMOs and PPOs became a part of our everyday table talk. (Wife and I feel it's important to communicate.) At any rate, from here on out, the City of Brotherly Love will hereby be christened Filthadelphia!
Are you accepting another job?
Working on it. After a two-month tour with Fatal Flying Guilloteens, my shitty band (just kidding, we slay!), I'll start floating résumés to see where they stick. "Terrell Owens's fly PR guy" could be a title I could get used to.
So there you have it, Space City. It's not you, it's me! Don't take your town for granted. It really is a great place to live, something this job taught me in spades. Anyway, enough sap. If you ever find yourself in Amish country, well, keep heading east a bit and look me up. We'll have a couple of drinks and then you can tell me you always hated me too. After which we'll commence Operation Sweet Action!
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