Hell, one of my co-workers told someone else in our chatroom not to do something because it might get him fired or written up. Later that day he was pulled into the Director’s office and written up for saying something negative about company management - what he’d said in the chatroom - even though it was absolutely 100% true.
“Hey, don’t do that or you might get written up” = “We’re writing you up for speaking negatively about our management here”.
Chimera, my blood is boiling on your behalf. I don’t know how you can stand working for people like that. Or how people like that end up in positions of authority pretty much everywhere. Ugh.
Some employers specifically ban public mention of the company name.
I work for a well known company, but we have a clear policy on blogging and general Internet usage that severely limits the circumstances under which they consider it appropriate for us to mention the company.
Clearly, we are free to do so at any time, but our employer does have the right to end our happy relationship at any time as well.
Not that it is a closely guarded secret either: I post enough on topics related to my industry that many could easily guess my employer. It’s just that some degree of discretion is desirable.
Send that to Scott Adams. Either he’s covered that in Dilbert and might send you a signed copy of the relevant strip, or he hasn’t, and he might use it and send you a signed copy of the relevant strip.
I am continually amazed by how many people’s last names are numbers. “What is your last name,” I ask them when they want me to do look them up in the computer. “410,” they might say.
My inner smartass response: “Really? Gave up on the whole word thing, did you?”
My slightly annoyed actual response. “Your last name?”
I sincerely doubt these people a) are named after their room number or b) even remember their room number correctly half the time. People have told me they’re in room numbers we don’t even have in the building, so I know 90% of the American Travelling Public is both full of shit and has no working short-term memory.
My quick bitch tonight:
“Mom, if you’re going to be out my way, may I have my snowblower back? Since, yanno, we’re supposed to get a foot of snow by this time tomorrow?”
“…welll… it works really great…”
“Yes, which is why I would like it back?”
“…well… how about I come clear your driveway tomorrow night?”
“In other words, you prefer my snow blower to yours and are going to keep it, right?”
“…wellll…”
I appreciate that a few weeks ago you took it to have your friend fix it, after the ex ‘fixed’ it into oblivion (like he did to TWO lawnmowers). I appreciate that it’s light enough for you to get in and out of your truck easily. I appreciate that it maneuvers very easily, and is perfect for a relatively small driveway. Which you don’t have.
I can’t go get it, as I have no way to bring it home. And were I to try to, I’d have to deal with the passive aggressive thing you do so well.
So I guess I will be stuck in until you show up. And I know there will be at least one comment about if I just lived in a townhome, outdoor maintenance would be done for me.
I am so sick of the Oprah Circus in Australia. The bloody media is raving as though it is the second coming or such, and those half witted fans who hang on every word she utters.
On behalf of all night auditors everywhere, may I add a “seconded,” and an “amen, sister! (or brother, if I’ve mis-remembered.)” If hotel work has taught me nothing else, I’ve learned that no one ever went broke by overestimating the stupidity of the American public…
This is the second time (well, since I’ve lived here) that he’s done this. Last time he started at 3:00AM. This is a residential neighborhood. I can’t believe his neighbors haven’t throttled him.
“Don’t sit me by the window because the light hurts my eyes.”
“Don’t sit us near the front because we get hit by a cold draft whenever someone opens the door.”
“Not too far back now, I can’t walk that far.”
“Oh, those people have CHILDREN. Please not there!”*
“Oh no! Not by the kitchen!”
“Not by the restrooms!”
JESUS GODDAMNED FUCKING CHRIST! STAY THE FUCK HOME THEN!! SHIT!!!
Stupid fucking old people. Kiss my ass.
…okay, I feel better now.
Look, if you’re not using a walker or a cane, and unless you say something to the contrary, I’m going to assume you’re okay with wherever I decide to put you, which is usually the section belonging to the server whose turn it is to be sat. Don’t wait until we’re at the table to start bitching. Yeah, I know we passed up a perfectly good table but I just sat that server and you can bet your ass she’ll bitch if I “double-seat” her. And the other server will bitch because she didn’t get sat when it was her turn. If I seat you at the closer table and let the server whose turn it is take you, then the server whose section it is will bitch that I’m giving her tables away. See what I have to deal with? You’re old, you should have some idea of how the world works. Jesus Christ!
Oh, and by the way, your server is my ex-wife. She fucked me over on the taxes earlier this year (when we were still married) so feel free to stiff her.
This is a family restaurant. If you don’t want to be around kids, go someplace else.
I like strong foods. I like bitter and spicy and zesty flavors. I like vegetables like broccoli and cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. I like onions and tomatoes and curries and garlic and hot peppers and hot sauce and peas and those pepper flakes at pizza places and lasagne and chile rellenos and hot and sour soup and curry chicken with onion and hot wings and jalapeno poppers and broccoli soup and beef stew and chili and spinach salads. I like foods that aren’t starchy or bland or made of flour and sugar.
And I can’t eat them.
I’ve been craving a soup all day I used to make with chicken and cauliflower and broccoli and carrots and onion and chicken stock and cream cheese. It was healthy and zippy and yummy and I can’t eat it.
While I wish that I could tell you of a spicy food that you could eat, I can’t. All I can say is that I’m able to eat oatmeal and cream of wheat cereal and Slimfast without consequences. If fruit doesn’t upset you, you can try some bananas or applesauce in your cereal. I can OCCASIONALLY eat a peppercini or two a day, as long as I’m careful not to eat them daily. However, YMMV.
Look. I know you’re white trash. You’re all tatted up, you wear Ed Hardy. Your unemployed boyfriend probably didn’t finish high school; your B cup tits hang out. You buy malt liquor 40’s and random dudes show up. You probably deal a little on the side. However, our lease agreements expressly prohibits smoking and our landlord is so stupid he doesn’t even care. Hell, what do you expect from a guy who charges 25% less than anyone else in the neighborhood?
So help me god, I hope you burn off your genitals with your cigarettes. If this shit doesn’t stop - and by “stop”, I mean “if it doesn’t subside so that my boyfriend’s Burberry trench coat and my ski gear continues to need dry cleaning” - I’m gonna start making the stinkiest Indian food I can, throwing limburger in the pot and smearing it on your door.
I’ll even pour it in front of your entrance. Swear to God. WTF are you gonna do, call our landlord and beg me to stop? He doesn’t give a shit…
Seriously, who the fuck under 25 smokes anymore? Did you flunk out of high school health class? And how the fuck did our landlord let you in, when the rest of the building consists of: biology phd students, law school students, and some people in a 5 year undergrad/masters program? How the* fuck *did you fool him into thinking you’re not white trash?
I hope you get pregnant and miscarry in the hallway.
More accurately, they think it relieves stress and anxiety.
lindsay, by all means, start up with the curry cooking. Throw some fish in with that, too. Now I wish I had asked what my husband’s former neighbours used to cook - it smelled like fried garbage and stunk up the entire four storey building.
