No, really. Stay classy, as much as it’s possible. I mean that.
You see, every Thanksgiving, we bring in the spread. Turkeys, taters, pies, the whole shebang. Set up in a big conference room and everyone has pre-Thanksgiving lunch together. And then we move the leftovers to the kitchen. And that’s when the classy part happens. Because that’s when the, how shall I put this? The office proletariat? Whatever. Anyway, they break out the industrial strength ziploc bags and start loading them up. If it can fit in a plastic bag the size of a melon, it’s going home. Save some for the rest of the office for a late afternoon nibble? Not our Office Services! Walking past the kitchen after T-Day lunch is like stumbling onto a hyena/condor-encrusted elephant corpse. Hyenas and condors who happen to be marching back to their nest with stacks and stacks of tinfoil-covered paper plates. And for whom that nest just happens to be either a trailer or a domestic arrangement infinitely more horrifying.
Makes me want to flamethrower this whole fucking place.
So today was a big day for me - as part of my volunteer work, I led a session today that involved significant public speaking, as well as meeting-management skills, and this was my first time doing it. A “friend” of mine (you may remember her) showed up late, and then after the event was over, when we came upon each other in the crowd, her first words to me were not, “Great job!” or “That must have been challenging!” but “Oh my God, your face is all broken out - what happened?!”
Yeah, I think she’s demoted to “acquaintance” now.
Well, going back to work made it necessary to hand over the baton to the rest of us. We’ve made a valiant effort to continue the tradition but we haven’t heard from him in a looooooooonnnnng time. He is missed.
So I have this friend who I have often referred to as a force of nature, because when she has made up her mind all you can do is batten down the hatches and hang on for the ride. I have something of a reputation of a wrangler of this friend, someone who can talk sense into her when nobody else can. I haven’t spoken to her in a month but the last time I did, she was initiating another extreme weather event so I decided to lay low.
We have a number of good friends, volunteer entanglements, and employment related things in common. Today, two of those common friends called me up to tell me about the natural disaster she currently finds herself in the middle of (which immediately involves two of our other common friends, Albert and Boris*, and tangentially involves our other entanglements), and wondering if I could maybe somehow intervene before FEMA has to get involved.
So I drop her a quick e-mail to see if she wants to come for dinner tonight, so that maybe I can find out about what’s going on with Albert and Boris, and conduct whatever other emergency response operations may be necessary. So she e-mails back right away to say “Sure, and I’m bringing Albert and Boris!”
So, friend: When I come out of the woodwork to try to counsel you through a crisis and get the dirt on Al and Bo, you should at least have the decency to leave them behind when you come over, so my curiousity can be sated!
Ah well, just makes it more fun for me. I can sit back, sip my wine and watch the show. and hopefully be briefed on Al and Bo on chat tomorrow morning.
To the student who came in to rescind this fall’s graduation application:
If you’re afraid of going out in the work world because you don’t have enough experience, how the fuck is more school going to help you? You say you’re going to get an internship to spruce up your resume, but deep down we both know that’s bullshit.
Santa is fat and jolly. He has been for thousands of years. No, he’s not going to lose 100 pounds, become skinny and look fit as a good example for the kids. He’s Santa Claus, for heaven’s sake! Get your shit together and stop wrecking things.
I was doing alright when they took the bells away from the Salvation Army kettle fellows - ok, perhaps it was annoying to the shop merchants in the mall (and the ear splitting techo pop at the kids’ stores isn’t, of course). Well, it wasn’t really all right but they’re not bringing them back any time soon.
Happy Holidays. No, it’s not Happy Holidays, it’s Merry Christmas.
Santa says “ho, ho, ho”. Except, apparently in Sydney. Where they are encouraging him to say “ha, ha, ha” because “ho” apparently has “connotations”. What! If a kid thinks this, I seriously doubt it’s Santa’s fault.
The Trans Siberian Orchestra IS Christmas music…it may not be the same as the Nutcracker but it’s Christmas music nonetheless. I truly don’t give a rat’s ass what you think about them. But thanks for offering your unsolicited opinion.
I do not want to have to buy a Christmas present for my SiL. She’s a manipulative trashy bitch and she’s making my BiL’s life hell. Her entire family drives me up the wall, even just to think about. And she never shuts up, and never, ever says thank you for the fucking expensive, gorgeous, thoughtful presents my FiL and MiL get her. And feeds her baby McDonald’s every day. Which is why she’s put on at least fifty pounds since giving birth a year and a half ago. And why he’s getting fat.
And saints and angels help me, I have to spend all next weekend with her.
Fuck fuck fuck.
This is definitely the year I’m entitled to have a screaming fit at her over dinner. Never a better time. I’m eight months pregnant and can blame the hormones. And maybe I won’t be arrested if I go for her with the carving knife at Christmas dinner.
Dude on a bike, why were you in the turning lane? Are you stupid? Are you related to the guy who drives his wheelchair down the middle of the road? Did you want me to run you over? Because if I had been driving my own car, you’d be a splat.
What are you doing now? No! No, you supreme asslick, you ride WITH traffic not against. WITH! You know what? Fuck you. I hope someone runs you over. You deserve it.
My boss is heading up an important function for a major charity here in town.
This major charity keeps spending money to messenger over thank you letters for him to sign instead of just putting them in the mail and having them arrive the next day.
They keep sending him announcements about the major tree lighting that is Just Days Away!! He is on the committee. He knows it’s Just Days Away. It’s not like he’s just Joe Schmoe donor. * He’s on the committee.* Yet, every other day we get another piece of mail…
Our office is one half city block from the big ass tree, too. We can see it’s just days away. Your charity dollars at work, folks.
Not only did you change your address to 123 Anywhere Street, Beverly Hills CA, 90210, phone number 5555555555, you changed your own last name on the billing system. Congratulations, bubba. You’re such a ninja that we can’t bill you!
Except no wait, what’s this information here? Sitting right on the internet for whomever wants it to see? Why, that would be your CORRECT information! Linked to all the lies! And it links you to another account, paid up for the most part, at least for another few months! Fancy that.
So I called your phone number. I emailed both addresses we now have for you. I slammed you for the past due fees you were eligible for. I was late doing it, but be assured, the day you’re eligible for another one I’m slapping them on again. And then you’ll get MORE late fees at thirty days if you don’t call us before then. I can suspend your other account, too – the one you seem to be earning the most money from. And I will.
It’s not that freaking hard to cancel. You call me and I talk to you for two minutes. You just decided you didn’t want to pay your bill. I don’t really get why you didn’t just give us a call, but it’s not relevant now. You lied to us, and I"m going to follow every rule to its utmost level in pursuing your account.
Also screw you, people who think it’s justifiable to do a chargeback for our services. People who list our billing@ address as spam, presumably because they don’t want to get their bills anymore. People who throw a fit about how much they don’t like our policies. People who think a mistake on their part entitles them to money from us.
Thank you so much for showing your ass for all to see at the funeral home this morning. It was a real pleasure to see. You certainly looked like a grieving daughter when you started screaming because your father’s casket was closed. Guess what, bitch? The casket was open until you appeared in the parking lot. Your father’s last instructions stated that the coffin was to be closed if you appeared. Quote: “She didn’t bother to come see me while I was alive, I don’t want her lookin’ at me when I’m dead.”
Your father had been going through the process of dying of cancer for several months now. Where have you been? Not visiting him, that’s for sure. You and your brothers couldn’t be bothered, so his cousins arranged for hospice and took care of him. He knew when he left the hospital Monday he only had a couple of days, and he made his funeral arrangements.
Tomorrow is his funeral, and I sincerely hope you will have the grace to either stay away or behave yourself. I don’t think that will happen, but I can hope. And I would sure love to be a fly on the wall when your dad’s will is read. I do not think you are going to be very happy.
Dammit someone discovered my Secret Library Cubby. The past 4 times I’ve been in there the same person has been holed up in the little cubby on the fifth floor by the philology stacks. You can see all of campus and the ocean from there on a clear day. Fuckin’ library scum stole my spot. :mad:
I learned something new at work yesterday - when you don’t respond to an email about the Secret Santa gift exchange at the work Christmas lunch, that means you want to participate. Maybe I’m wrong here, but when did not RSVPing something that you’re not interested in mean an answer in the affirmative? I’ve bought the stupid gift for someone I have never met, and I’ll bring it in, but I’m not impressed.
Hangover + PMS = me weeping on the couch at six am because Ellen’s showing a story about a woman in Monkey Run who rescues animals including an epileptic zebra.
I mini-pit the lawncare crew who worked on my new next door neighbors yard yesterday. We just moved into a house and I’ve kept busy raking up the tons of leaves we’re getting. I don’t mind at all because it’s really satisfying to see the lawn clean and the huge pile when I’m done.
Last night when I got home, however, the section of our lawn that meets that of our southern neighbor was completely covered again, while hers was clean! Clean right up to the property line, in fact.
Now, I realize that leaves are continuing to fall and I have no real proof that they purposely blew her leaves into our yard, but I had, the night before, raked up all the leaves in that area including the ones on her property, just as a friendly, neighborly gesture. I figured it would be really anal and uncool to leave a clear demarcation.
I don’t think the homeowner herself would have told them to put the leaves on our lawn, but again, I have no proof, just the fact that we haven’t been there long enough to piss anybody off yet. Therefore, I accuse the crew! A pox upon you!
Had a day off work so I decided to treat myself a bit. I went and bought a nice looking ribeye. Grilled it up perfect and dug in. on my fourth bite it I hit something really hard, totally out of place in a nice ribeye. I kept sawing and finally broke through. Into some kind of cyst or tumor or something. Fucking Dried blood clots and some oozy green liquid poured onto the plate. There is no way in hell I’m gonna eat around it, and I’m having trouble keeping the three bites I did have down. $11.99 a pound right in the garbage, so much for treating myself a bit.
Oh. Dear. Og. I seriously would have puked. Then I would have taken the steak, puke, puss, blood clots and all back to the store. No way in fucking hell would I let that one slide. All I can say is I am so very sorry.
Not so much pitting the vodka itself, more a faint damnation because if it weren’t for the tasty vodka, I wouldn’t have been a) awake at 6am on a Saturday and b) weeping over an Ellen segment.
Though I was most definitely pitting the hangover that came from said vodka.
I pit my smegma-bomb shitstain landlords (two brothers).
It’s in the low 40s in New York and we haven’t had heat for 3 days now. They are not answering their phones and, usually, when this happens, you can be sure we won’t be able to get in touch with them until at least Monday.
Yes, we have a Heat Complaint Hotline, but procedurally, their authority to come in and provide heat when the landlords’ won’t doesn’t kick in until at least Monday.
Ass and Wad: your mother made at least two mistakes in her life.
