I saw a drunk guy (there was the scent of booze, and he was a loud dick, so I’m assuming) yell at at the concession desk clerk over not receiving a Sprite that he most assuredly didn’t order. In front of his wife and kids. On Christmas.
Dick. I feel bad for everyone who isn’t him–the clerk, the wife, the kids.
Excuse me, I believe that is, “Let’s not get it started.”
Yeah, well Captain Renault was right. :rolleyes:
You mustn’t underestimate American blundering?
I am so fucking tired of answering the question, “Oh, did you have a nice Christmas?” Yes, I had a nice Christmas. Yes, I took the kids and my husband to see my mom. Everyone got toys. Everyone ate too much crap. We came back. The end. And now I have to ask about yours.
I like you well enough, but I care about what you did almost as much as I don’t care to tell you what I did. I know this makes me a bitch, but I don’t care about that, either, because I don’t have to ask you to know what your answer will be, for a couple of reasons: 1) everyone in this office does the same damn thing as everyone else for the holidays. 2) You did the same thing last year. 3) You told me about it a thousand times before Christmas and, although I’m losing my mind, it’s hard to forget what you did when it was already beaten into me.
Still, I’ll do the dance. But I don’t have to like it.
Didja have a nice Christmas, overly? Took the family to see grandma?
Gaaaahhhh!
That reminds me of a vacation story - you know how after you come back from vacation, everyone always asks you how it was? I asked a co-worker how his vacation was, then ha-ha’ed about how no one ever has a lousy vacation cause you’re off work, you know?, and his response was, “Well, actually, it was a pretty terrible vacation because my wife ended up in the emergency room with third-degree burns to her face after blowing out a citronella candle in an aluminum pail, and it exploded back into her face.” Okay, this is me shutting up now.
Got a better one. My husband and some friends took a trip to Egypt a couple years ago. When they all arrived at my house on their return from the airport, I said, predictably, “So, how was the trip?” Answer: “Oh, it was OK I guess but we lost Gail.” Lost? What, did she wander off with a random Egyptian? No, she died. On a sailboat going down the Nile, at night, several miles from the nearest port or landing. Good times were (not) had by all as they had to carry their friend’s body up a riverbank, get to a town where they were interrogated and had to sign some forms in a language they didn’t understand.
Oh, my. That is, indeed, a truly lousy vacation.
We had burst pipes in our house, right after we’d finished Christmas dinner. So cue running around in panic trying to find the stop tap, only to discover that our house and plumbing is so old that there isn’t one in the house and the one in the garage doesn’t work so we had to try and turn it off at the mains, which we couldn’t manage ourselves, so my uncle was called. Mainwhile water was now coming through the landing ceiling and the kitchen ceiling. It was a bit scary.
Now we are to-ing and fro-ing between the insurance company, their plumber and the waterboard, as we weren’t supposed to switch the water off ourselves, but hopefully the plumber will come tomorrow and we can have water again.
Not been a brilliant Christmas.
But just seeing the above posts, at least no-body died.
What the fuck? You “weren’t supposed to switch the water off [y]ourselves”? What the fucking fuck did they expect you to do, turn the fucking place into a swimming pool? Fuck!
Goddammit! Will people stop using the word Snowpocalypse?!? Fuck, it’s been done to death. STOP.
It was old *last *year. Jeeze.
No. They were supposed to pay for an emergency after hours visit from a trained monkey to turn it off for them.
After he confirmed that yes, there was really a burst pipe and it was actual water spraying all over everything.
And, and…that fucking blizzard delayed my daughter’s arrival by two days thus fucking up my vacation days. See, I took Monday and Tuesday off work anticipating her arrival mid-day on Monday. Now she arrives Thursday morning and I’m supposed to work. Shit.
I’d be happy with Merry Christmas from The Wilson Family. Saves us from all manner of bad punctuation.
A couple of blocks from here there’s a beauty salon advertising “manicure’s and pedicure’s”…
And three Christmases ago my own sainted mother had a special little plaque made for my brother’s family with the family surname on it…Oh, heck, let’s pretend the surname is Wilson since we’ve already been playing with that one. The plaque had little silhouette cutouts of mom, dad and three kiddies with the caption that says “The Wilson’s”. My sister, never the one to keep her mouth shut pointed out my mother’s unfortunate grammatical mistake, right there on Christmas day, just as my brother and his wife opened the gift. Good times.
Oh, and just so I can add one final Christmas gift rant, my mother purchased for me cocktail napkins with a pithy little bit of humor about menopause and also a pad of post it notes with a pithy little bit of humor about PMS.
[sesame street] One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just isn’t the same…[/sesame street]
I realize I just turned 50 mom. I haven’t started menopause yet and I’ve never suffered from PMS and I don’t, nor have I ever, had a thing for chocolate. Where ever does she get this stuff.
OK, I’m stopping now.
Don’t you mean “Merry Chri’stma’s from The Wil’son Family”?
Your procedural is missing steps.
The trained monkey had to come in, verify that there was a spraying liquid which on first inspection and pending further analysis appears to be aqueous in nature, determine that the probable cause for the presence of the aforementioned spraying liquid appeared to be a burst pipe, ask for the stop tap, inspect the whole house in order to determine that there does not appear to be one, give the homeowners a speech about the importance of being In Code, ask about other keys, examine the key in the garage, go to his van, determine that he did not have tools adequate for that specific model of key, go get appropriate tools, determine the key in the garage was not working, ask about other keys (again), examine the mains, determine whether he does or does not have tools appropriate for the mains (they usually take only one “need a different tool” trip, more than that is considered cruelty), operate on the mains to close them.
One would think you’ve never dealt with a tradesman, seriously.
Not unless they’re an Inuit family.