At my dad’s funeral, my 3 brothers and their families were late because they decided to go out to dinner rather than take part in the church supper provided.
I can’t tell you how embarassed and steamed I was that my brothers had to pay that last little amount of disrespect to him.
Even that doesn’t always help. My surname is a slight variation on a much more common one: the first syllable is identical, though. So people see the first half and just go on autopilot for the rest. At my undergrade commencement, depite writing out my name phonetically on the little card they provide for the purpose (with the second, accented syllable in large, block caps–the more common name has the accent on the first syllable), the person announcing the graduates STILL fucked it up. He’s probably the only person in the entire university who would, too–just about everybody knows my mom (who works there and has the same surname), and a lot of the professors either knew me or knew *of *me.
The dean who handed out the diplomas at my college had everybody speak their name into a tape recorder a few days before graduation and practices using the graduate’s own pronounciation of his name.
Smart guy, he was.
1.) We had two people trade off doing the announcing.
2.) How big was your college? My university was probably about 11k students total, and my college was the largest one, so I’m sure there were hundreds of us graduating.
Still, a good idea if you’re in a situation where that’s feasible.
Yeah, Jeebus, I went to UT Austin. (Hook 'em!) I musta graduated with the equivalent of the population of a mid-sized city. Still, nice idea for a smaller school.
It was a small, private, non-vine covered school in New England.
It sorta did - in a more diplomatic manner, of course.
And Shot From Guns, I considered the comment about the sex toy. The ostomy bag idea is inspired, though. I could’ve threatened to toss the contents at them.
Aw, man. My boss’s boss’s birthday is tomorrow. Cue the inevitable shakedown for a group gift PLUS we’re all going out to lunch PLUS now they’re talking about ordering some Sprinkles cupcakes and splitting the cost. Look, people, I don’t like talking about my personal life at work so I haven’t been boo-hooing and blabbing about my finances like [co-worker] but I’m broke and in debt. I like cupcakes as much as the next person - more, probably - but I really don’t feel like buying myself an overpriced cupcake to eat in honor of someone I don’t really like anyway. I have to buy myself a lunch already. Isn’t that enough?
Bonus points if you can make them feel *extra *guilty by telling them you have it because you have cancer.
What the FUCK?! Anybody with *an ounce of etiquette sense *should know that you gift down, not up. You’re under no (objective) obligation to chip in for any of that shit.
Way to end my working day, Bitch. I’m already completely wiped out from the TERRIBLE HORRIBLE PAIN in my back and right arm, and the drugs I’m taking to make me not scream and pass out from it. But 75 minutes of arguing with me about every motherfucking thing I suggest that you do while completely and utterly failing to tell me critical pieces of information until AFTER that information would have been useful, then blaming ME for apparently not knowing this information up front? Letting me to come on the phone with you and say “here is my understanding of what the issue is” and you saying YES and then working from that point, only to get 64 minutes into it and have you blowing a gasket because you really wanted to do something else all along but didn’t have the fucking brains to tell me what it was?
GO
FUCK
YOURSELF
Your whole life is probably one vicious long circle of you failing to communicate properly and then blaming the other person for not giving you what you really wanted.
Damn the humidity!
Last night, when I got home from some volunteer work, I took the Pyrex mixing bowl that was catching my air conditioner drip (it’s that effing humid! I never had to do that before) to the kitchen sink to empty it. I spilled a little water on the floor and was going to mop it up as soon as I put the bowl back under the drip.:smack: Note to self: vinyl flooring is slick when there’s water on it. Mop first!
I went sailing. When I landed, I took a minute to figure out just how I was going to go get the broom without cutting my bare feet to ribbons from the remnents of the Pyrex bowl. I managed to do this, but while sweeping up the mess, I noticed something wet and sticky on my hand. I looked down to find the front of my shirt and the broom handle streaked with blood. Yeesh!
I determined the source of the blood: two cuts on my left middle finger. It took a while to get it to stop bleeding enough to determine the depth of the cuts. Fortunately, the big one came just short of having to go for stitches.
I patched myself up, finished the cleanup and thought everything was cool. Today, I stepped on another piece of glass buried in my living room carpet (it borders the part of the kitchen where I fell). Now, I’m the band-aid queen. 
Nice username/post combo, missred. 
Fuck my fucking eyebrows for still trying to meet across the bridge of my nose after many moths of plucking them. Fuck you little worthless bastards.
Fuck that the hair on my scalp can’t be bothered to grow in at the same rate.
How do you train the moths?
damn it ALL
Thank you, random person, for entering my car and pulling out everything in my glove box and middle console. Why you thought my 1993 hoopty would contain anything of value is a mystery to me - but glad you confirmed it.
Oh, and thanks for not closing my door all the way when you were done. You’ll be happy to know that in spite of your best efforts my battery did not die.
Crap, that sucks. Sorry that happened to you. That was here in C-Town?
Yup - it was. Found it at 7:30 AM when I was leaving for work.
Damn. This place is going to the dogs.
Ugh, there’s nothing worse than trying to work with terrible people when you’re in pain and have been for quite some time. It just wears down any normal buffer of patience and sanity that normally keeps you from snapping.
Eh, as long as the cut is somewhere you don’t mind having a scar, sometimes you can just make do with some good solid band-aids.
Just months? You can pluck that shit for *years *and it will keep coming back. Always and forever, if mine are any indication. (Sounds like they don’t grow as far to the middle as yours, but the parts I *do *pluck have never stopped growing.)