monster sarcasm rally

At our Christmas service tonight we were instructed to turn to hymn number whatever. The First Nowell*? What the hell is that? Are we celebrating the birth our Saviour or bemoaning some sort of water shortage? I had to put the book away to keep myself from bursting out laughing all the way through the song.

*Rachel, if you tell me there's nothing wrong with that spelling, I won't hesitate to knock fifty points off you**.

**Unless, of course, you say it sarcastically, in which case I'd probably give you a bunch of points.

If you ever decide to dress up again, clean jeans might be a good idea.

I opened my Christmas package from my parents this morning. My dad must have done most of the Christmas shopping this year, because there was very little of the stupid-crap-I-don't-want-and-don't-need that my mother usually selects for me. I spoke to them on the phone for a while. My dad didn't slam down the phone in disgust and my mother didn't cry.

This afternoon I stopped by to visit the relatives. Everybody was uncharacteristically pleasant. My cousins both spoke to me. My grandmother only repeated herself about forty times. My aunt didn't ask a single insult-veiled-as-a-question. The worst incident of the hour I spent with them involved my cousin's baby. He smiled and giggled at me. I got down on my knees and approached him, whereupon he immediately burst into tears and ran away. He stood in the middle of the living room bawling at the top of his lungs for several minutes. All in all, it was an uneventful event.

Came home to make my Christmas lasagna. English asked if he could help, so I sent him to 7-Eleven with Beandog. Now he's in the living room playing the guitar. Hot Guy is in the kitchen making mango chutney — from scratch, of course. Beandog and the Dog Whose Name Means Marijuana are asleep at my feet. The Stinkey Monkey must be off molesting an innocent couch cushion somewhere.

Merry Christmas one and all!

Yesterday, New Chick and I went out for our Christmas lunch. The rest of the department had a Christmas lunch, but conveniently neglected to invite us. So we took a super-long lunch and went to an Indian buffet.

The snow that had fallen the night before had melted, so the streets were a good 10 cm deep with slushy brown liquid. My shoes and socks were completely soaked by the time we got back.

At the end of the day I took the subway up to St Patrick station, and then got out to catch the streetcar the rest of the way home. It was about minus eight, but the windchill dropped it to just above Absolute Zero. I stood there in my sopping wet shoes and socks, with my asthma going nuts, waiting for the nonexistent streetcar. People started talking about the fact that there were no streetcars running anywhere in the city. 'But there are busses', somebody said. Then just to prove a point, a TTC bus resembling a large, red tin of sardines drove past us. A multitude of cabs (all occupied) passed us as well.

I waited there for about (a boot) 20 minutes, before giving up and walking the rest of the way. The wind was blowing straight at me. My lungs had decided that, no thank you, they would not care for any of this cold air; they'll just wait until we get home. My feet, well... You know how people say 'I can't feel my feet'? I only wished I couldn't feel my feet.

By the time I got home, the morgue attendants were waiting on my front porch to take me to my final resting place. But just then my phone rang, and, since there was an emergency requiring my attention, I had to go on living.

Moiraine said her new puppy had kennel cough, and she didn't want her other dog to catch it. Could I keep her for a few days? Sure, what the hell... It's not like I had any better plans.

Several minutes later the Dog Whose Name Means Marijuana arrived at my door. This dog, who was clearly named in a brilliant stroke of irony, is the most high-strung, neurotic, attention-seekeing person you'll ever meet. And she has the world's worst case of OCD. Last night, however, she spent the evening on the couch scowling at everybody and refusing to move. She didn't punch anybody! Not even the Stinky Monkey, who spent the evening attempting to wrestle with her head.

I plunked myself down on my couch and vowed that I was never leaving my house again. Several hours later, I hauled myself up off the couch and into bed. I spent the night trying to ignore the DWNMM, who spent the night pacing, panting and crying.

And now, here I am at work shivering and trying to keep my face from hitting my desk. Three and a half hours to go.

Merry friggin' Christmas everybody!

...contains 'No artificial colours and flavours or preservatives'.

Huh? What the hell kind of grammar is that?

So New Chick told me today that in her interview my boss described the Ferengi and me. He said there were two people in the department already.

One is extremely resistant to change, very particular about things being done her way. She doesn't understand the NOW, NOW, NOW nature of the job. The other is open to change, takes the initiative and does things the most efficient way possible. She's willing to do whatever it takes to get things done on time.

Guess which one I am!

Sweet! All this and 98 blog entries per day too...

Remember the feeding of the 5,000? Jesus finds himself surrounded by a mob of 5,000 — all hungry, cranky, and possessed of dangerously low blood-sugar. Of the entire lot, only one little boy had the foresight to bring lunch with him. He gives his little loaves and fishies to Jesus, who manages to use one child's lunch to feed the hordes. Then his disciples clean up the leftovers, which somehow fill 12 big baskets.

Yup. That's what my dog's been doing. Only with hair instead of food.

Apparently he's decided that the world is suffering from some sort of hair shortage. And he's going to cure it single-handedly.

I started brushing Beandog last night. Every minute or so, I cleaned out the brush and placed the hair in a pile on the ground. Pretty soon there was a small mountain of hair in the middle of my living room floor. At one point, I had to send in a search team to locate my other dog, who got lost in an expedition to the centre of Hair Mountain.

I never did finish, but eventually I got bored and stopped brushing. It's not like any less hair was coming off him. Nope. Is he bald now? Nope. He looks exactly the same as he did before the release. I could have kept going all night. I'm convinced that the entire living room would have filled up, floor to ceiling, and still Beandog would remain as hairy as ever.

I am saving the hair to have it spun into yarn. Then I'm going to ship it off to my mother for her to knit me a toque and maybe an afghan or 16. Oh, you think I'm joking, do you? Check out the following...
http://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/0312152906/qid%3D1103815095/701-9451994-2657151
http://www.vipfibers.com/knitting-project-ideas.htm
http://www.dettasspindle.com/WoofspunDogYarn/WoofspunDogYarn.html

The laundry has now been done. Except, of course, for the work ensemble. (Well, I only wore it once. Okay, twice. Three times.) That's not enough to justify putting it into the half empty washer containing the rest of his clothes.

Completely. Madly. Head over heels. In love.

With Krinkle Cut Kettle Chips in salt and fresh ground black pepper.

Not only are they the freakin' best thing since chocolate, but I'm not allergic to them!

1. A mere 36 hours after crossing the 1,000 threshold, my little statcounter down there to your right has now surpassed 1,100. And remember, that's visitors, not page loads. You like me. You really like me!

2. The lovely folks over at the bond trading desk have been singing 'You don't win friends with salad' for two weeks now. It was funny the first 483 times.

3. One of the jerks on the trading desk keeps shouting 'C'mon, HIT ME!' I think I might.

Monster sarcasm rally, long your regular source of adventures in sarcasm and the occasional bit of unintelligible pre-coffee sarc, is now the only blog to award points to readers for knowing useless bits of nonsarc.

Currently in the lead is the Saint with the six points he earned for his in depth knowledge of BtVS. Bringing up the rear is everybody else with no points.

Nobody's even attempted to claim the 20 points up for grabs today in That's disgusting!

I wonder what Darmok would say in response to the word 'masticate'.

So childish... I know, but admit it: you almost spit your coffee out through your nose.

So, last night dude said to me,

I haven't done laundry since I came to Toronto.

WHAT? You've been here for a month!

I know, but I just keep recycling everything.

I'd been thinking he had a bit of a malodorous effect on the house. Now I know why. Good grief, man! Even if you buy into the whole recycling theory, one pair of underwear still only lasts four days. Dude has three pairs of pants and I've seen maybe two different shirts. I don't even want to know about the underwear situation.

[violent shudder]

And, hey, the whole walking to the laundromat excuse is moot. We have laundry in the house. Free laundry, even. With free laundry detergent.

See, and you guys thought that smell was emanating from the Stinky Monkey...

This is actually a pretty old story, but it came up in conversation last night, so I decided to pass it on.

Darmok* once came home to find me reading The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove. She scoffed at the title. (It's a really good book, I promise!) She asked what it was about. I hemmed and hawed for a minute trying to figure out how to put it into a few words. I explained that it was about the residents of a small town. The local shrink realises that she's been medicating people instead of actually helping. She decides to replace all the antidepressants she prescribes with placeboes.

I didn't get any further than this, because Darmok flew into disgusted hysterics. (That's disgusting! That's so gross! How could she do that? Blah blah blah...)

I paused. Thought about it for a moment. (No, not placenta. Placeboes.)

She looked at me like I was trying to pull a fast one on her. (What's the difference?)

(Placeboes are nothing; they're sugar pills.)

She still looked sceptical. (Well then why can't you just say that? You and all your stupid big words that nobody understands... You just want people to think you're smart.)

Coincidentally, we once had a similar conversation when I used the word 'savoury'.

(I can't believe you, of all people, used that word. You're an editor; you should know better than to go using big words that nobody understands.)
___________________________________

*There's a good reason that I've dubbed her Darmok. Due to the obscurity of the reference, I'll award twenty points to the first person who figures it out.

...that seems to have happened while I was sleeping

When, exactly, did Wesley Crusher grow up and become so cool? Seriously, it's worth reading. And go buy me one of his books for Christmas...

And, yes, since you asked... Work is boring today.

At some point last night my little hit counter jumped up into the four-digit world. I feel so validated! And that's visitors, not page loads, just so you know. So you there, in Utah, reading everything I've ever written, you only count a couple of times. And welcome. Say hello to the nice folks.

One of my housemates, fresh off the boat from England, has been on a mad hunt for all things Canadian to send to his family back home as Christmas gifts.

Aside from maple sypup, he queried Cute but Kinda Evil, Hot Guy and me, what are some distinctly Canadian things?

Well, there's Tim Horton, hockey player turned doughnut purveyor. Obviously... Mmmmm... Coffee... And toques, of course. Where would we be without our toques? And Laura Secord, war heroine turned chocolatier. And MEC. How can you spot a Canadian anywhere in the world?Certainly not by the Canadian flag, no, that's an American in disguise. The real Canadians are the ones with MEC logos on at least one of the following: backpack, jacket or toque.

And now, for your reading enjoyment, here are some Canadianisms I ripped off from around the worldwide web. The first two come from Molson, brewer of CANADIAN.

Hey,
I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I'm certain they're really, really nice.
I have a Prime Minister, not a president.
I speak English and French, not American.
And I pronounce it 'about', not 'a boot'.
I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack.
I believe in peacekeeping, not policing; diversity, not assimilation; and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal.
A toque is a hat, a chesterfield is a couch, and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed'!!!!Canada is the second largest landmass, the first nation of hockey, and the best part of North America!

My name is Joe,
And I. AM. CANADIAN!!!!

Here's to you, Canada.

_____________________________

Here's to your hockey hair, your long underwear, and your multi-coloured money.
Here's to saying please, your ducks and geese, and always bein' funny.
Here's to open spaces, away from Rat Races, and a beer that quenches the thirst!
Here's to bein' proud and sayin' it loud! Even when you don't come first.
Here's to your pretty girls, your black-coloured squirrels, and a flag that stands so free!
Here's to different races, from different places, who love this country, like me.

But most of all, here's to standin' tall, and sayin' it like a TRUE CANADIAN!

I love this land, I love this country,
And I. AM. CANADIAN!

_____________________________

Here are some reasons to be proud to be Canadian:

1. Smarties
2. Crispy Crunch, Coffee Crisp
3. The size of our footballs fields and one less down
4. Baseball is Canadian
5. Lacrosse is Canadian
6. Hockey is Canadian
7. Basketball is Canadian
8. Apple pie is Canadian
9. Mr. Dress-up kicks Mr. Rogers' ass
10. Tim Hortons kicks Dunkin' Donuts' ass
11. In the war of 1812, started by America, Canadians pushed the Americans back... past their 'White House'. Then we burned it... and most of Washington, under the command of William Lyon McKenzie, who was insane and hammered all the time. We got bored because they ran away, so we came home and partied... Go figure.
12. Canada has the largest French population that never surrendered to Germany.
13. We have the largest English population that never ever surrendered or withdrew during any war to anyone, anywhere.
14. Our civil war was a bar fight that lasted a little over an hour.
15. The only person who was arrested in our civil war was an American mercenary, who slept in and missed the whole thing... but showed up just in time to get caught.
16. We knew plaid was cool far before Seattle caught on.
17. The Hudsons Bay Company once owned over 10% of the earth's surface and is still around as the worlds oldest company.
18. The average dog sled team can kill and devour a full grown human in under 3 minutes.
19. We still know what to do with all the parts of a buffalo.
20. We don't marry our kin-folk.
21. We invented ski-doos, jet-skis, velcro*, zippers, insulin, penicillin, zambonis, the telephone and short wave radios that save countless lives each year.
22. We ALL have frozen our tongues to something metal and lived to tell about it.
23. A Canadian invented Superman.

BUT MOST IMPORTANT...
24. The handles on our beer cases are big enough to fit your hands with mitts on.

For more info, click the links below.
http://www.kwinternet.com/chris/timtest.html
http://www.canadaka.net/modules.php?name=Sections&op=viewarticle&artid=33

And then, if you're really jealous and want to become Canadian, click here.

*Frankly, though, I don't really see how Velcro has saved all that many lives.

A breakfast-time play...

Setting: Kitchen of the Monster House
Reading the part of the Stinkey Monkey: Stewie of the Family Guy
Reading the part of Beandog: Brian of same

I feed my dogs a mixture of kibble and homemade porridgy stuff. They love the homemade stuff, and do not care too much for the kibble. This morning I had run out of their porridge, and so topped off their kibble with some leftover rice noodles.

Beandog wolfed down all the rice noodles with gusto and proceeded to eat the kibble.

His Royal Stinkeyness looked at his dish, looked at me, looked at the dish, looked at me. (What the hell is this crap?) He put his head into the dish, lifted his head, looked at me. (Excuse me, but could I get some of that gusto to go with this swill?) He tried to eat the kibble under the rice noodles, but the offensive stuff was touching the kibble. (Eeeeeew!) Eventually, he bent down and took the tiniest piece of noodle, lifted his head and, with a shocked and horrified look on his face, flung it. It landed on his front paw. He lifted his paw, stared at it disgustedly, and began trying to shake the noodle off. (It's toucing me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

He braced himself to do the worst: he picked up the entire clump of noodles and dropped it on the floor next to the dish. He returned to the dish and began picking away, ever so slowly, at the bland, boring kibble.

Beandog, fed up with the whole process, shoved the Stinky Monkey away from the dish and proceeded to polish off the entire contents. (If you're not going to eat it, get out of my way, peabrain!)

The Stinky Monkey discovered a big clump of rice noodles sitting on the floor next to his dish. (Hey! Oh boy, yummy noodles! I wonder who left them here. [gobble, gobble, glump])

the end

In no particular order...

1. My pants are fully covered in dryer lint. Well, you might point out, dryer lint is normal; it's inevitable. Sure, but I don't put my pants in the dryer. I hang them to dry.

2. The bagel cashier-dude is particularly cranky this morning.

3. Did I mention that it's approximately three degrees Kelvin this morning?

4. I'm tired.

5. I'm not finished my Christmas shopping, but my bank account disagrees. My next payday is the 25th.

6. Most people have no idea what three degrees Kelvin actually means.

7. Stupid people.

8. Hot Guy is also intelligent, funny and kind. For frig's sake, if you're hot, you're supposed to be either dumb as a post or a self-centred jerk-off! That's how it works, goshdarnit.

9. My mother.

Um... That's all for now, but I'm sure there'll be more later. I'm just going to keep adding to this post throughout the day.
_________________________________

10. Sometimes I am one of the stupid people.

11. I failed to do my laundry this weekend and am now stuck with leftover underwear. You know the ones... They're ready to be thrown out, but you might need them someday... Well, today is someday.
_________________________________

12. Why must people go down into the rat tunnels and stand in the middle of major thoroughfares having conversations?

13. Walk Left, Stand Right. It's not that difficult a concept. Get it through your heads already!

_________________________________

14. The Ferengi.

Minus frickin' 24 degrees! With windchill dropping it to MINUS THIRTY-SEVEN!

No wonder I didn't want to get out of my nice warm bed this morning...

and...



and...

Have her come and talk to myself when she gets back.

If you'd like more information, please come and see myself after the meeting.

Hello! [Bad grammar sirens are blazing all throughout the building]

You can talk to yourself all you want, but nobody else can talk to yourself. We can talk to you, but we cannot talk to yourself. Similarly, I can see myself in the mirror, but you cannot see myself no matter where you look. You can see me, but you cannot see myself.

For an un-sarc explanation, please do us all a favour and read the following:
Reflexive pronouns

Then go read my grammar rants and learn to better yourself somewhat:
The sarcastrix's guide to better writing
Today's grammar lesson
Can somebody please explain to me...
Princess, my darling, don't do my job for me
__________________________________________________

There are five (count 'em, FIVE) mistakes in the title of this post. They were meant with irony, in case you were wondering.

Look here! If I answer your question with a question, it is not because I have a bad attitude. It is because you have asked a stupid question.

Sorry, I forgot. There's no such thing as a stupid question.

Bite me.

Fine, whatever... Maybe I do have a bad attitude. Piss off.

Wait! Before you go, can I have some of that chocolate?

PROPER NOUNS
Monster sarcasm rally: like a monster truck rally, but with sarcasm
Sarcastrix: like a dominatrix, but with sarcasm
Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn: father of the current reigning Sarcastrix
She Who Lives in a Bubble (aka Bubble): mother of the current reigning Sarcastrix
Sarcastrix the Unspeakably Manipulative: maternal grandmother of the current reigning Sarcastrix; alternatively referred to as She Who Must be Ignored

NOUNS
Sarctim: victim of sarcasm
Sargin: like a virgin, but with sarcasm (that is, referring to sarcasm... uninitiated in the ways of sarc...)
Sargent: oh, no wait... That's just bad spelling
Sargasm: the ultimate sarcastic experience
Nonsarc: like nonsense, but with sarcasm
Un-sarc: all forms of communication deficient in sarcasm
Sarctionary: like a dictionary, but with sarcasm
Fidiot: an expression of contempt for a person's complete lack of intelligence; a contraction of friggin' idiot

VERBS
Sarcas: to be sarcastic
Out-sarcas: to be more sarcastic than

ADJECTIVES
Pre-sarc: before the sarcasm

ADVERBS
Sarcly: like friendly but with sarcasm

SARC PHRASES
Pre-coffee sarc: a particularly biting brand of sarcasm unleashed early in the morning*
Adventures in sarcasm: any conversation with the Sarcastrix

*Pre-coffee sarc is generally not comprehensible

My phone rang. I looked at the display and saw the first name of one of the guys in the office with whom I'm on a sarcly basis. I picked it up with one of my typical greetings reserved for such people. I'm not sure which one. It would either have been 'Yessir!' or 'Whaddaya want this time?', or 'You'd better not have the phone rammed down your throat again'.

Um... Pardon?

Ohcrapohcrapohcrap! That would be my boss's voice.

I look at the phone again. It might have been a good idea for me to look at both the first name and the last name of the caller before shooting my mouth off. I apologised and bumblingly explained that I thought he was the other Jonathan.

Bossman: Still not very friendly, though. Is it?

Sarcastrix: Well, erm... Jonathan and I have a very special relationship.

Bossman: I see (in a tone of voice that implies that not only does he not see, but he really doesn't want to see what sort of special relationship we have).

Hey you. Yes, you, ya big loser...

Go talk to BoB and let them know that I can out-snark anybody.

What are you waiting for? Get moving!

Hot Guy cooks.

I mean, a lot of guys cook, but how many do you know that make their own salad dressing? When they're making dinner for themselves? How many guys do you know who even eat salad?

He described a great meal he made one time made entirely from stuff he just happened to have in the fridge. I stopped him right there.

Look, you're a guy. You're supposed to have beer and mustard in your fridge!

He smiled (tauntingly, I might add) and proceeded with his story. The meal in question was a wrap with lettuce, tomatoes, bacon, mangoes and some sort of fancy, schmantzy salad dressing. Mangoes! Dude just happened to have mangoes sitting in his fridge.

I got home from work the other day. Hungry. Must make food. I made a meal out of stuff I just happened to have on hand. It consisted of: a can of mushroom soup, a can of lentils and some frozen broccoli. Mix together in a wok. Serve over rice. Mmmm!

Surprisingly, it wasn't half bad. Okay, so it looked like puked-up dog food, but it tasted all right. The reason for this is simple: sesame oil. Being the self-serving roommate that I am, I rudely stole some of Cute but Kinda Evil's sesame oil. Everything tastes better with sesame oil.

And nary a mango in sight...

It was a late night, and I am sleepy...

I was going to write this last night, but then I went out for pizza with the boys instead...

That has to have been the lamest Christmas party in the history of ever. I let Moiraine sparklify me for that? I got all dressed up to stand around not talking to my co-workers? I worried about what exactly?

The one interesting result of the evening was learning that New Chick thinks that guys in their 30s and 40s are hot. Ugh!*

*To all my readers who fall into this category: sorry to disillusion you, old dudes. You may be nice and funny and smart and whatever, but you are just so not my thing... I am sorry to inform you that your desire for me** will go unrequited.

**Of course, unless you are also homeless, you weren't looking at me that way anyways.

I am Sarcastrix, daughter of Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn, granddaughter of Sarcastrix the Unspeakably Manipulative...

And I have just been out-sarcased, um... sarcassed, oh dear, no... sarcast?

Whatever. Where's my chocolate?

I'm worried.

Tonight is our company Christmas party. I've been trying to psych myself up for it for the past month. I haven't been particularly successful. I foresee two possible outcomes.

One:
I spend the night surrounded by drunk men I don't like, who want to tell me everything they've been storing up for the past year.

And another thing...
I've never liked you!
My grammar isn't the problem; you're the problem!

Two:
I have a beer. I wander the bar giggling and telling everbody what I think of them and their grammar.

And you... You're like the mad hyphenator or sumfin...
Schtoopid princess, prancing around in yer little tutu, wif yer little magic fairy wand...
Haf you evemer even heard of vowels? Vowels are my friends. Stop abbrevematening them out of ever-thing!

See? Either way, this can't be a good idea.
________________________________

Six points to the first one who spots the Buffy reference.

Today we have a new character to introduce. His name is Marvin. Well, it's not actually, but it'll do for now.

My phone rings. I answer.

'Hi', Marvin drones. Oh great. One word and I'm ready to go jump off the Bloor Viaduct. Confound that anti-suicide barrier! [shakes fist] He speaks in a deep monotone that sounds like he's doing his best to keep from bursting into tears. Every word takes twice as long as it should. Every sentence is punctuated with a profoundly dispiriting sigh.

Most of the guys have assistants to do all their dirty work for them. Not Marvin. For some reason, he doesn't. Hypothetically, this means he has to do all his own formatting, detail checking and corrections. Realistically, it means that I have to do it for him. Publishing his document should be a 15-minute job. Because I have to act as his assistant, it should turn into a 45-minute job. But it doesn't. It turns into a 3-hour job.

Sue doesn't know how to use Micro-friggin-soft Word or Excel. He tries. He really does, but each and every bit of effort he puts into his files means an extra chunk out of my day spent trying to figure out how to undo what he did.

I could just send the files back to him and make him fix them himself. God alone knows how much worse he would actually make them in the attempt. And besides, he might cry. If you know anything about me, you know that I can't deal with crying people. If a close friend bursts into tears, I burst into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. I present him/her with the finished product and quickly back away to a safe, non-hugging distance.

If somebody I don't know that well were to burst into tears, I don't even know what I might do. Erm... That's not true. I'd yell. When people cry, I yell. So... Right, probably best not to burst into tears around me. Just in case you were planning on it.

Of course, I've just given you the secret weapon. If you want me to do something and I don't want to, threaten to cry. I'll do just about anything as long as we can avoid the infernal blubbering.

Anyways... Where was I?

Oh right. I was about to fix Marvin's files for him and thought I'd have myself a bit of a rant first.

The end.

We don't want to see character development and cohesive plot lines! Just give us gratuitous nudity.

Seen scrawled on the side of a building this morning as I walked to work...

Shut the truck up!

All I want for Christmas is...


I have one so far, but I'd like to get the complete set.

My one year anniversary at my job is coming up next week. Will I have a review? Will I be getting a raise?

My boss made some very vague comments about my performance this morning. Not to me, of course... He was speaking to the Ferengi. He told her that lately I've failed to catch quite a few spelling errors. He didn't provide any examples, just an obscure reference to some mistakes I am alleged to have made. Again, he has never mentioned any of this to me.

I asked the Ferengi about performance reviews and raises. Apparently the obscure remarks he made when he gave me my semi-annual bonus in August constitute all the review I'm going to get. At the time he referred to some errors that either I had made or that he wanted me to avoid making. I'm not sure whether he was speaking about anything that actually happened or merely hypothetically. Based on the freakin' huge bonus I got, I assumed it was either the latter or it wasn't really that big of a deal.

As to raises... Well, the Ferengi says that if you want one, you ask for one. If you don't ask you'll never get one.

Based on this morning, though, I'm guessing that today's not my day to ask.

I just put a NO FLYERS PLEASE sign up. These are fairly common. You see them on houses where people have the good sense to not waste paper. If you don't put one up, your home will be inundated with advertising and free newspapers and all sorts of crap.

I may very well be the only person with such a sign taped to her desk, though.

Building management has taken to delivering assorted ads and promos and special notices to each desk and I don't like it!

The princess is the king of passive-aggressive behaviour.

The Princess and the Ferengi are having a conversation. The Princess is telling the Ferengi that he thinks it's a good thing that we've got a third person for our group. 'It's just too difficult', he says. We need another body because our work is too difficult for us.

I think he's trying to portray himself as sympathetic and understanding, but he's being a condescending dick and I may have to shove my pen up his nose.

Me no SMRT. Me go way now.

The Ferengi is sick. She's complaining about the fact that she's sick: she's tired and feverish and her glands are swollen and her throat hurts. And yet she refuses to go home.

As we all know, she's the only person who does any work around here (we know it because we have to listen to her gripe about it). She's also the only person who knows how to — erm — file things properly. And besides, it might get busy at some point and then how would the two of us (me and New Chick) handle it?

Oh goody, it's time for another Letter from the Editor. This one even picks apart somebody's grammar.

Dear Ho,

I am writing in regards to your comment of yesterday afternoon. What you had to say was as follows.

Orgasm>Sarcasm

I am somewhat perplexed by this. The symbol you have used is a mathematical one meaning 'greater than'. Note that this refers to the mathematical meaning of the word rather than the informal one.

To speak plainly, you are stating that there is a greater quantity of orgasms than there is of sarcasm. However you have not defined the parameters within which you have found this to be the case. Look around yourself. Do you observe anybody having an orgasm? Do you observe anybody employing saracsm?

For myself, I am at work and the number of observable orgasms (approximately zero) is greatly exceeded by the instances of employed sarcasm (approximately 17 per hour). If you were at home while writing your comment, the answer is likely to be similar. In fact, in most places I know of, instances of sarcasm far exceed the number of orgasms.

I deduce, therefore, that your statement was meant to imply that orgasms are better than sarcasm. If this is the case, I advise you to employ more clear, concise grammar in future.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Sincerely,
The Sarcastrix

In high school there were two types of kids: those who were naturally gifted but did no work and those who got good grades because of all the effort they put in. The first set did nothing; never studied, rarely did homework, aced all the exams. These were the kids sitting on the floor in the hallway at lunch madly writing essays that had to be handed in 20 minutes later. The second set did all their homework, spent hours each evening studying, did well on their exams. When an essay was due, they spent the entire weekend beforehand writing their outlines, their rough drafts, then their second drafts, and finally their good copies.

Admit it; if you were in the second set of kids, you hated those of us in the first. Right? We know you did.

We're not in high school anymore, and now the tables have turned.

New Chick here was probably one of those who fell into the second category. Your host here at Monster Sarcasm Rally proudly fell into the first. It worked for me in high school. But now I'm worried. See, I could run circles around New Chick. I could do this job better than she and the Ferengi combined. But that would take effort.

New Chick had car troubles yesterday. She got stranded in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the snow storm. She never made it in. Totally understandable... She's making up for it by coming in four hours early today! What the heck? She shows up on time, she doesn't slack off, she always puts the effort in. She's making me look bad, and I don't like it.

Ah, whatever... I'm going for breakfast.

So it's snowing. Like for real.

I got up this morning and stumbled to the front door to let the dogs out. I'm pretty sure that if the air had been white, I would have noticed. 30 minutes later the dogs had been fed, I had been clothed and shod, and I opened the front door again.

What the heck? What's this crazy white stuff blowing all around? Why is it here now? It's not due until Boxing Day. By the time I got to work (a half hour's walk) I looked like the creature Darmok refers to as the Abdominal* Snowman.

That was more than four hours ago. The air is still thick with all the crazy bits of frozen water.


*Yes, that's right; I said abdominal.

Good ol' Bridget Jones* is over here. She's talking to the Ferengi about getting her wedding dress alterred and how she doesn't want to take it just any place, because it's so important, and how her fiancee wants to travel all over the place, and how she wants to spend time with her family, and how she spent Saturday night in watching Extreme Home Makeover and it's her favourite show and she cries every time she watches it because it's just so touching and how the last time she went for a massage the guy was so rough on her because he said she needed a therapeutic massage not a relaxing massage and he was so hard on her that she almost cried and blah blah FREAKIN' blah. She's very nice, but she's way too emotional and I don't think she has any self esteem.

*In case you haven't guessed yet, the movie friggin' annoyed me**.

**I saw it by accident and against my better judgement.

Following in the footsteps of Dear Creepy Old Man, I have decided to run a series of Letters from the Editor. To borrow a phrase from Frater Bovious, 'this will be a sometime feature' here at Monster Sarcasm Rally. Aren't you lucky...

Dear Spam-Faxer,

I am writing with respect to the note you faxed over this afternoon. Surely you'll remember it; it's the one with 'FAXING SUCKS' written in large, bold all-caps letters at the top of the page. I am writing to advise you that I absolutely concur with that statement. The rest of the note is a load of codswallop, but the heading at least is correct.

In my place of employment, I have the pleasure of sitting in front of the fax machine. Not only does the evil beast drone incessantly, but the powers that be have dictated that it is my responsibility to make sure that faxes get to their intended destination. This means that I have to go through the 50 or so pages that come in each day, weed out the uninmaginative, repetitive spam-faxes and find the one page that's actually addressed to somebody who works here.

I am not your secretary. I am not anybody's secretary. I am not any of the modern euphemisms created to replaced the word secretary! My father may believe that Editor is synonymous with Secretary, but this is due only to his extreme disappointment at my failure become an Engineer, like the good little girl he expects me to be. Any job, any career I might have is certainly inferior to the career I would have if I had done what he had told me to do and is therefore 'just a secretary'.

But never you mind about that...

I am not writing to lament my inability to please my father.

I am writing to...
...take out my frustration...
[no no, not right]
...to advise you that your advertising goes stright into the recycling bin...
[no, never mind; it's our toner and our paper. Why would you care?]
...to express my outrage that you would actually state that you want your 'recipients to be informed and respected, not frustrated'...
[what the heck, you don't care]
...to inform you that your statement about bringing 'integrity and effectiveness to Faxing' is infuriating for the errant capital letter alone...
[no, no, no...]
...to suggest that you make the world a better place and consider suicide as a viable life-choice.
[yes, that's it, that'll do]

Please consider using a passive (e.g. pills, poison, carbon monoxide...) method as opposed to jumping in front of a subway train on your way home. Subway jumpers cause ridiculous delays in service and hold up thousands of other passengers, preventing them from getting home in time to watch Buffy.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Sincerely,
The Sarcastrix

Could somebody please whip a batch of this up for me?

Gee, thanks.

Hi, I'd like to place an order please.

Thanks, can I get a smart, funny, hot guy with a side of athletic and outdoorsy, and can I get him to bring me chocolate? Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, could you let him know that it should be organic fair-trade chocolate?

Great, and can you please deliver that to my house?

Perfect, thanks!

Wait... What do you mean I can't keep him?

My father once sent me an article 'proving' that not only was Harry Potter evil but so was some particular denomination of the Christian church. It seems that when they began filming the first movie, they approached a certain church about using it as the location.

1. That church (Anglican, I believe) said 'no'. They then approached a second church and inquired with them. They said yes, and the movie was filmed there. The fact that the first church denied the request (quite obviously) proves that Harry Potter is evil. Why else would a church refuse such a request?

2. The fact that the second church agreed to allow the movie (already known to be evil as demonstrated in step 1) to be filmed on its premises proves that not only is that particular church evil, but by extension we can see that the entire denomination (sadly, I can't remember which one it was) is quagmired in evil.

3. The fact that the Anglican church denied the request to use its building in the movie proves that the anglican church honours and obeys God by shunning evil. (Remember that the movie was already conclusively proved to be evil in step 1.)

Lord of the Rings (complete with wizards and magic and whatnot) is a Christian classic. Harry Potter (complete with wizards and magic and whatnot) is quite obviously evil. Comparisons between the two must never be made.

-end part one of absurd lecture-

Are you sure that Lord of the Rings can be a Christian Classic if Harry Potter is evil?

1. Frodo has to carry a ring to Mount Doom. Harry Potter plays Qiddich, the goals of which are rings.
2. Lord of the Rings has talking trees. Harry Potter has magical forests.
3. Frodo has 2 companions on his journey. Harry has 2 friends in his school.
4. Frodo is a youngster chosen to complete a difficult task. Harry is a youngster chosen to be a great wizard.
5. Frodo's ring allows him to become invisible. Harry's invisibility blanket allows him to become invisible.
6. Lord of the Rings was written by an author whose first name is shortened to "J." Harry Potter was/is written by an author whose first name is shortened to "J."

Clearly, Lord of the Rings is also evil, and anyone who dares to read the books is, by extension, evil.

-end part two of absurd lecture-

-begin response to part two of absurd lecture-

Ah, a simple misunderstanding...

1. Frodo goes to destroy the ring because the ring is evil. Harry and his pals play with rings.
2. Frodo's trees talk, but Harry's beat him up. Why would the trees beat him if he weren't evil?
3. Frodo's companions want to help him destroy the evil ring. Harry's companions go to the same evil school to participate in the same evil learning.
4. I dunno, man... Got nothing there...
5. Frodo's evil ring makes him invisible. Therefore we know that invisibility is evil.
6. Tolkien's J = John. John the Baptist was the cousin of Jesus. Rowling's J = Jo-Anne. Nobody in the Bible is named Jo-Anne. Coincidence? I think not.

-end absurd lecture-

Many thanks to the one known as Hermione for writing part two of this drivel.