It’s the one that seems like four hours.
Something about hours 1-7 makes it seem ok that you have more than one hour til you get to leave. But when you’ve got one hour until you leave suddenly it’s dragging.
tick
tok
tick
tick
tok
tick
fagot.
It only drags if you’re clock-watching. Find some work to do and it flies by.
Or read the dope, that works too.
Pardon?
Clearly the “tick tock” reminds someone of the engine noise of a MiG-15. :dubious:
In my last job I had to work with customers. The last customer of the day was always the one who difficult transactions or unreasonable demands, so the last ten minutes literally became a half hour.
Ah… Because for a moment I thought was being insulted.
Of course not. This is the Pit, where politesse reigns supreme.
I don’t know who you hang out with, but some of us detest the use of that word in almost all contexts. Why are you throwing something that despicable out there?
See post #4
He threw that word out there because he was attempting to be insulting. See, when you want to insult people you don’t use the nice happy words, you use the mean ones. it’s a lot more effective. If you read posts in a subforum dedicated to complaints and insults, you might see some words that don’t make you feel warm and fuzzy. Grow a thicker skin, nancy boy.
Meh. Several times I’ve been given 2 hours’ worth of work 30 minutes into what I thought was my last hour of work. Usually I was working on something else at the time.
If you’ve got nothing better to do than watch the clock, you should just leave work and save your employer that hour’s pay.
Let me add, in addition to that natty piece of venom, that I totally understand Lobsang’s dillemna. Even when I’m productively working on something intensive, I notice the clock begin to crawl at the end of the workday.
In my old job, the last hour was MY hour. I played Links computer golf.
In my present job, the last hour is the fastest to me. Obviously YMMV…
Well, if not talking about the Mig, then maybe hir post was made by a native Spanish speaker and implied that your post was similar in tone to a bassoon..
Usually, no matter how tired and sick I feel, I know I can tough out the last hour. It’s the next-to-last hour that’s really horrible. I’ve put in six hours and there are still two whole hours left to go. 
I certainly didn’t mean any offence. Well, maybe some.
In my part of the world that word certainly isn’t “despicable”. I call my Dad that all the time. It’s a mild insult suitable for use in public places that means the same as being “effeminate”
What’s more I feel like it would be very hard for it to have the same sting over there as it does over here since the term “fag” for a cigarette still seems to be widespread
You need to speak proper 3rd grader syntax to address this on the level it’s from. Observe.
yo mama
What about that hour just after lunch? That’s my worst. The whole afternoon waits to be ticked away, my belly is full of a most unsatisfying, low-fat microwave meal, my pals have all gone back to their holes so there’s no one to talk to; all I want is a nap.
Or a fag to satisfy my sinful tobacco jones.
While I grok the fagot, he is quite simply wrong.
2:59 pm, June 17(?), 1980. Longest minute in recorded history.
I sat, alone, in the music room of my high school. Staring at the clock. Waiting… waiting…
Strains of Alice Cooper ran through my head again and again. Thirteen years of my life I spent in scholastic prison. And it was all to come to an end, in what seemed, by the clock, to be one minute. Alas, the minute hand took yet another thirteen years to reach that final tick.
I graduated at the age of 31.
Steven! Come home!
/distant merry-go-round music