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The garbage chute is for putting garbage down. If it doesn’t fit, it doens’t belong there. DON’T LEAVE IT ON THE FLOOR. And while we’re on the subject, garbage that falls out of the overstuffed bag you tried to force down the chute falls on the floor, it is not beholden to a five second rule. Pick the fucking thing up and throw it away with the rest of your shit. Asshole.
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While we’re still on the subject, the stairwell is not the garbage chute, either.
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Saying “Oh, thank you!” and “How did you know?” and reaching for my coffee when you see me walking by with it is not funny. It’s on par with handing a cashier a crisp new bill and saying, “I just printed it! LOLomgwtf!” It’s fucking lame. Stop it.
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Speaking of which, if I’ve just ordered two coffees and I’m already carrying other things, the answer is “Yes, I would like a carryout tray.” But thank you for making me ask anyway.
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Fuck you to my last company, who failed to accurately calculate my taxes or even err on the side of caution, thus making me owe $530 for tax year 2005. You suck.
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Don’t try and light a fire under my ass for parts that are back-ordered at the factory. If they don’t have any to give us, we don’t have any to give you. If they don’t have an ETA, we can’t tell you when to expect them. Deal.
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“From Soup to Nuts” is a dumb name for a small engine repair shop. I just wanted to put that out there – although if you do, in fact, have soup available while you wait, allow me to apologize and pass the minestrone.
Odd. At the moment, BKC Holdings appears to be up 3.14% on the NYSE. Are you sure you didn’t buy anything?
Dear Company,
Document your fucking logging infrastructure! I just wasted a very aggravating day trying to figure out how to get the output from a program, when it was sitting there in /var/log/messages the whole damn time.
Hey, Giant Retail Store;
Thanks for selling me that new service package. I was really grateful.
I didn’t mind taking a vacation day to wait for your service guy.
Even though he was a half hour late, the bastard.
Hell, I wasn’t even pissed that he had to order a replacement part.
And I sure as shit wasn’t confronted when I found out that it would take a week for the part to be delivered.
I do not mind using my goddamn ice chest for that long.
It’s kinda like being on a pissant camping trip, but the fishing’s worse.
And thanks for the hot tip that my replacement part will show up the day after the service guy’s scheduled to come back, peckerheads.
Looks like I’m burning another vacation day, assholes.
I didn’t want to see my son a lot this summer, anyway.
So FUCK YOU, Giant Retail Store.
In the neck.
With the fucking zipper up.
Wow, England’s own Bill O’Reilly. :eek:
Fuck you, nasty aging receptionist. Here’s a tip: when your co-workers can no longer distinguish you from any given extra in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, time to retire. Fuck your pink baglady-style kimono that you wear three times a week. Fuck the Chinese lettering you’ve hand-stitched on the back of it, like you just stepped off a sampan downstairs. Fuck your screeching voice, it sounds like someone dug up Fran Drescher’s mom and put her at the front desk. Fuck your inability to apply that bright red lipstick just to your lips, and fuck the way you smear it all over the bottom half of your face. Your face looks like the ass end of a headcrab as drawn by Ronald goddamned McDonald. Oh hey and fuck your twattish inability to buzz anyone through the door when they’ve got arms full of stuff and coffee. What’s that about, you’re suddenly Cunty McCuntycunt, Grande Dame of the Door, and just too busy to push a button? And while we’re at it, fuck your chintzy perfume and the way stepping into an elevator with you is like marching into a cloud of German mustard gas on the Western Front. OH, and a giant middle finger FUCK YOU to that bizarre thing you do around the holidays, where you make up shitty gift baskets and try to sell them to us. Yeah like I’m going to give someone I care about one of those pieces of shit. Here, have a gift basket made by our retarded receptionist, it’s clear I value your friendship during the Christmas season. Also: why do the shitty gift baskets contain little gilded angel statues with hand-painted bright red lipstick and little hearts applied to one little golden ass cheek? Is that supposed to be enticing? Here, buy a gift basket full of whore angels, all your friends will want one? Fucking hell, if I owned an art store and you walked through the front door I’d kneecap you with my forklift before I allowed you to unleash such atrocities on the world.
Oh, and bitch? When my secretary says I’m not fucking here, guess what that means? It means…he’s…not…fucking…here. You don’t question that, you don’t take it upon yourself to tell unidentified callers that you think I might be in the fucking office, let’s see if you can find me for them. Are you directly out of your tiny fucking mind? He’s not fucking here, that’s what you say, you meddling pissant halfwitted shitsack. You don’t ever fucking question my assistant on that point again. I’ve got half a mind to chop your shriveled old teats off and nail them to the side of the building as a warning to the others, you brain-damaged heifer.
When you lie down in your favorite dumpster tonight, shitty dimestore kimono wadded up under your frizzy head, I hope the iguanas come and devour you. Fucking bitch.
Oh, now you’ve gone and done it.
Not least because he apparently doesn’t understand the prefix “mini-”. :eek: 
Preach it, brother!
For me, it’s my current company (well, law firm, actually), to the tune of $677 :eek: , for 2006 taxes. MuthaFUCKas! :mad:
Even if the state of New Jersey allows me to do a payment plan, WTF am I supposed to do when my budget’s already so tight that you can’t even sledgehammer a dime between its asscheeks?
GAAAAAAAAAH!
Kind sir, you have truly brought me unparalleled joy today!
May I offer you a whore angel?
A-fucking-men! If there’s no parts in New Jersey and none in Germany you get to fucking wait. One of my own bikes is down waiting for parts to be made. Fucking deal with it.
And while I’m here, cow-irker, stop telling me about all of your petty-ass problens every time you talk to me! I’ve got enough shit to deal with without listening to you whine like a little bitch! Shut The Fuck Up And Do Your Job!
Tell me about it. At least half the stuff that falls out of my co-worker’s mouth is just noise. This morning it began:
“Oh dear, whine whine”
Me: “What is it?”
Co-worker: “My chair is missing!”
Me: “No, it’s right there.”
CW: “No, I mean my other chair.”
Me: “That extra one you don’t use?”
CW: “Yes! It’s usually right there. What could have happened to it? Do you think someone took it? Oh, well, never mind.”
And so it goes throughout the day. Bitch, shut up!
Fuck you, emissions testing station guy. Not because I have to pay you $25 every year to stick a wand up my— well, my car’s— tailpipe for two minutes. No, although that does suck, you’re being pitted because recently you started setting up road cones to create an artificial “lane” leading into your li’l drive-through testing shack.
It is really cute— or as cute as something totally unnecessary can be— but maybe you hadn’t noticed you’re in the middle of a parking lot that gets very full every afternoon. When it fills up, there’s a one-way lane leading directly to a perpendicular dead-end in your little “cone zone,” with no way to get around it— so you’re forcing gym patrons (e.g., me) to either drive the wrong way, or in reverse, down the entire length of the lane simply to be able to get out when they leave.
Fair warning: next time that happens I’m going to drive right the fuck over your stupid cones.
A big honking FUCK YOU to the douchebag who was so preoccupied with his cellphone call that he blocked an ambulance after everyone else had emptied the entire lane (center lane of three on a one-way street). Extra fuck you because when the ambulance was laying on its horn and blasting the extra-super-fancy siren that could be heard in the neighboring province, you looked all annoyed and plugged your other ear because you were having problems hearing your cellphone conversation over all the ruckus.
But props to the lady in the SUV who, after checking with us pedestrians, drove up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, and under a store’s awning, so the ambulance could squeeze by Mr. Be-Quiet!-I’m-On-The-Phone. :mad:
Okay asshat. That lane in the middle of the road? The one with yellow stripes on both sides? That’s called a turn lane. Want to guess what it’s there for? That’s right, move your dumb fucking self into it before you turn. It would really be nice if you got in it before you step on the brakes.
I hear ya. I can pay the stupid back taxes, but that brings me to a related rant:
- You. The Federal Government of Canada. You, collectively, are an asshole for putting a due date on the entirety of the balance owed that sits a scant three weeks after I receive your little love note, or I risk the wrath of Overdue Interest. You do that on purpose, don’t you? Because you know very fucking well that I’m going to default on that due date, which guarantees that I’ll end up owing you more because I’m late in paying it. Well, fuck you with Paris Hilton’s gangrenous dick!
Oh, that brings up yet another related rant:
- Don’t bitch at me with the tacit expectation that I’m going to pay your assholiness forward to the company that doesn’t have the precious parts you want. Do your own dirty work or STFU and GBTW, because the CEO of a major manufacturer isn’t going to leap out of his Italian leather chair and make the parts with his own bare hands just to satisfy some two-bit mechanic who’s whining vicariously through me. Perspective, motherfucker. Do you have any?
Oh, and another couple rather minor ones.
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You’re a major supermarket chain. It’s 6:00pm on a Wednesday. There are no doomsday emergencies or howling snowstorms or biblical floods going on, and you don’t have any sales on it, so tell me, please: How in the holy fuck do you run out of every brand of bread?
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You’re a major supermarket chain. You’re having a big “while supplies last” sale with a deep discount on a popular product that often sells out even when it isn’t on sale. Conventional wisdom suggests you stock more of it than you normally do. A lot more. Enough to last more than two days. I don’t know what conventional wisdom ever did to you, but I suggest you kiss and make up.
And did you know that it is possible to move over before making a right turn, so you don’t hold up all the traffic in the driving lane? And that is it possible to move all the way over, so your ass end isn’t holding up all the traffic in the driving lane? Not a lot of drivers seem to know that finesse move.
Dung Beetle, people like that are proof of Douglas Adams’ theory that humans talk so they don’t have to think. I’m a social enough person at work, but I don’t need to hear every stray thought that crosses my cow-irkers’ minds.
Fuck you period cramps. Once every two weeks to two months you fuck 24 hours of my life up. You laugh at Midol, Pamprin, and the like. If you strike on a day I have to work, I have to call in. Once I even took some Ambien to just sleep through the pain. I could not sleep. The hallucinations were fun though. A few hours later I took another Ambien. The pain was great enough to wake me up out of that drug induced state every hour. You reduce me to alternately screaming and crying with pain. Even though I’m an accident prone person, I’ve never cried as a result of any other pain.
Well, last month I figured out how to beat you (lots of ibuprofen, running for an hour, long soak in near-boiling bathwater, all at first hint of discomfort). Now you’ve one-upped me. Very fucking clever striking in the middle of the night so I couldn’t stop you. Let me tell you, searching for the heating pad in vain on my hands and knees with tears streaming down my face was just peachy.
Oh, and fuck you roommate for this little gem, “Why don’t you just go to the store and get another heating pad?” Well golly gee, why didn’t I think of that? Oh that’s right, because if I could walk upright and not scream obscenties every few minutes I wouldn’t need the fucking heating pad, now would I?
Dear customers:
I like you. I like your dogs. Do come by. I just do not like it when you all arrive within five minutes of each other. If you’d just make sure you arrive, oh, I don’t know, twenty or thirty minutes apart we could still get everybody done without having to rush rush rush, when it’s impossible past a certain point to rush rush rush because it takes for freakin’ ever to dry a dog whether we do it by hand or put them in a drying cage (which we don’t usually do unless we’re really behind, or said dog simply won’t cooperate with hand drying).
I’m not going to rant about how some dogs behave because, well, they’re dogs. The only good thing about a rush is the tips, usually.
(I work in a combination dog wash/coffee shop. Come in. Sit down, have some coffee, I’ll wash your dog, unless you want to do it yourself, which is a bit cheaper than having me do it for you. When everything’s going well, this is a FUN job!)
Now, my next question would be - if you’re not fucking here, where are you fucking?