monster sarcasm rally

Dear imaginary blog reader,

Blogger and I have had a little chat. It's not that we don't love each other anymore. Well, no actually, that's exactly what it is: we just don't love each other anymore. But we both still love you very, very much. Or, at least, I do. It may very well hate you to the core of its very being, but that's another story.

We've decided that it's best for everybody if we try living separately, just for a while. We're going to see how things go. For now, you can still find Blogger right where it's always been. I, on the other hand, am moving into some snazzy new digs over at typepad.

Please remember that it's not about you, this is between Blogger and me. Please don't stop loving me; I still love you. Come and visit me often, since I'm sure the next little while will be a very lonely time.

Kisses,
The Sarcastrix

Dear imaginary blog reader,

Please go check out the vaguely new monster sarcasm rally!

The new site will feature:

• the same pithy sarcasm;
• new and exciting works of neurotica; and
• as many abuses of sarcasm as I can pack into each day!

New features include:

• a complete lack of Blogger and its annoying disruptions!

Typepad costs money, though, so be sure to tell me if the new site sucks just as much arse as this one does!

Dear Shane,

If it's late at night and my door is closed and my lights are off, it means I've gone to bed. In an emergency, you can wake me up. Acceptable emergencies include:

• The house is burning down
• One of your limbs has been severed and you need me to drive you to the hospital
• A nuclear bomb has gone off On second thought, I'll either wake up the next morning and find out or I won't. Either way not much I can do right now...

'Hey, have you got a calculator?' does not constitute a valid emergency. While it's true that I hadn't yet fallen asleep, my dogs had. They were snoring softly, until you knocked on my door and started shouting my name. Then they exploded in a frenzy of confused excitement.

If you ever do that again, I will find you a calculator and use it to club you to death.

Best regards,
The Sarcastrix

PS: What the hell do you need a calculator for? Is your brain broken?

...it's that I just don't care.

I went to talk to my boss yesterday. I had to get special permission to take three weeks in a row off in order to go to India.

In spite of the fact that I spend the vast majority of each workday writing sarcastic drivel, my boss seems to respect me and the work I do. Only God knows why...

Following yesterday's conversation with my boss I now have:

• permission to go away for three weeks;
• even more of his respect than I did before;
• 15 minutes more work to do every week; and
• the impression that he/the company may be willing to make a donation towards the cost of my trip.

I am actually turning into Peter Gibbons.
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I wrote this post once already, but Blogger ate it. Now I can't remember what it was I said. That posses™ me off.
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In other news...
I really hate this layout and am working on yet another new one. I will probably never be satisfied. The problem is that although my design skills are up to par, my html skills are sadly lacking. It's kind of like being a good writer, but only knowing 16 words.

Eureka! I have found it!

Yesterday's post led me to an epiphany. I have discovered the key to getting your blog read and inspiring readers to leave comments. You just have to know your audience. Men and women look for different things.

To get women to read your blog and leave lots of comments, you just have to talk about breasts or boobs. Both Cat and Cryptic have proved this point quite nicely.

To get men to read your blog and leave lots of comments, apparently you just have to talk about tits or racks.

Well, now that we are all enlightened, on with the posting...

Or not...

Okay, we all know that everybody who has any kind of site on the internet will sooner or later be hit by somebody who got there by googling some bizarre form of porn. Right? It doesn't matter if your site is about gardening implements (great big dirty hoe), sooner or later somebody's going to find a way to twist your words and turn them into porn. It happens to everybody.

Except it doesn't. It never happens to me.

Except it did.

Well, sort of... Half an hour ago somebody in Baltimore, Maryland, USA googled 'ginormous tits', and guess where he ended up. Yup, right here. I'm thinking he had to wade through thousands upon thousands of sites before getting to mine, but the point is he did. And that's something to write home about.

Except not.
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When I grow up I am so going to be Oscar Leroy. I just want to walk around all day calling everybody jackass and not making any sense.

Dear Luanne (again),

This is just a reminder.

Thanks,
The Sarcastrix

PS: Please get a brain.

*Fidiot: [noun] an expression of contempt for a person's complete lack of intelligence; a contraction of friggin' idiot

Dear Ford,

It has been brought to our attention that this week (07 March 2005 to 11 March 2005, inclusive) will be your final week at your present place of employment. As you are well aware, your long commute has necissitated a late arrival at home each weekday since commencement of said employment. Given that both CbKE and I arrive home at least an hour ahead of you, you have had the privilege of walking in the front door to find dinner waiting for you. The timing of the termination of your aforementioned (hee hee) employment will coincide with the termination of the meal service.

Beginning next Monday, the 14th of March in the year of our Lord 2005, CbKE and I will expect to find dinner ready for us when we get home. It would be a nice touch, although not strictly necessary if you could arrange to eat your own meals beforehand so that you can play your guitar softly in the background whilst we eat, talk, and generally unwind from our days.

The meals need not be fancy, complex or expensive. They ought, however, to be tasty, nutritious and completely vegetarian. Additionally, please ensure that the house is clean before either of us arrive.

Thank you in advance for your attention and co-operation.
The Sarcastrix

Anne would like to know why 'the disease of Stupidity has taken a hold of the West and is spreading faster than any biological or chemical weapon ever could'?

Yo baby,
im not 2 sure about dat. i never herd any1 say dat Chemecal weppens cause stupidety. i no ur not jes a hot chic but a real Smart 1 to so if u say its true den im gonna take you're word 4 it. did u learn that in 1 of ur Astrolegy classes at univercity i did'nt no u new so much about Everything. mabey next wknd we can hook up and tak about it im relly interessed to here wat u hafta say cause like i said i never herd that thery b4. im always ready for a intelecual connversatoin. insted a hanging wif the geeks next week and watchen the show with the Gay guy you and me could go somewhere reely nice and we cud just talk. lemme no.
BigPimpin

Peeved Michelle asks: 'If someone asked you, "Did they hook up?" about two people, what would you think the person was asking you?'
A- Did they have sex?
B- Did they make out?
C- Did one ask the other for a date?
D- Something else?

hey peeled michel,
yo thats a good question. i bin thinkin bout that alot so im a good 1 2 ask i think the Anser depends on whose asking. cause men and woman has differnt ways a thinkin u no. when a chic ask a question like that shes prolly thinkin about if their going on a Date. a girl likes to be romanced and told that there pretty and crap like that. guys are differnt yo guys just wanna get some action. so if a dude ask that question he prolly just wants to no if they been getting it on or not. unless a girls a slut cause sluts are just Dirty man and they sleep wif anybody they do'nt even care about him they just think they gotta do whatever the guy wants and they dont even care. i dont no if i answerd ur question but thas wat i think.
BigPimpin
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Disclaimer

No, I haven't written here yet today. Why? I've been busy. No, no... I haven't been working. Don't be silly. I've been writing at the Truth. Know where that is? If you do, you can read it. If not, well... There's probably a reason for that, now isn't there...

I'll do some Dear BigPimpin letters later. So you can have an extension in writing in. Otherwise I'll just go ahead and put words in your mouth. 'Kay?

Just what you've been waiting for: another Letter from the Editor...

Dear Luanne,

What's in a name? That which we call poop by any other name would smell like crap.

Your job is not that difficult. Please learn how to do it. Your ineptitude is making my life difficult. When I have to send you the same e-mail twice because you didn't read it the first time, you seem forgetful. When I have to send you the same e-mail two more times because you still don't get it, well... Forgetful isn't quite the right word. It doesn't begin to approach your level of inefficiency.

When I tell you that I do not work for the Ferengi, it is because I do not work for the Ferengi. When I tell you that she does not supervise my work, it is because she does not supervise my work. When I tell you that I do this and she does that, it is because I do this and she does that.

When I tell you who does what and who does not do what in excruciating detail and you proceed to make requests of the completely wrong people, well... Guess what... It slows down your requests.

Also, when you screw up your document for the 847th time in a row, please don't blame me for your mistake. I know it was you who made it. Your boss knows it was you who made it. My boss (who is your boss's boss) knows it was you who made it. The IT people know it was you who made it. New Chick knows it was you who made it. The other assistants know it was you who made it. The guys who hang around outside the beer store near my house know it was you who made the mistake. And, yes, they're laughing at you. The friggin' pope knows it was you who screwed up. The Ferengi doesn't know her arse from her elbow. But guess what. She still knows 22,654 things that you don't, including the fact that it was you who screwed up. She doesn't actually care, though, since it's not her job to care.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Best regards,
The Sarcastrix

It's Friday. Your letters to BigPimpin are due by Monday morning at nine. Marks will be deducted for tardiness.

Everybody wants to hear about Ford's adventures in Canada, right? He's been the object of my mockery. I've been the object of his mockery (especially this week). He's commented repeatedly on the fact that it seems everybody he knows in Toronto (Anne, Cute but Kinda Evil, Rachel...) is caught up in this blog world.

So here's the part where I need your help... Let's all get together and peer-pressure Ford into writing a blog of his own! Oh boy, won't that be fun!

Leave your comments here and tell him to get off his (er... onto?) his arse and start writing.

I had a bizarre and unexpected experience this morning. This has never happened to me before. I'm not sure what to make of it.

While lying in bed trying to fool myself into believing I was still asleep, I mentally selected what I would wear to work today. The shirt I chose was one I haven't worn since the summer.

I found the clothes I had decided to wear. I pulled the shirt on and began zipping it up. I got the zipper up to about the middle of my back before I made an alarming discovery: it wasn't going to go any further.

I'm confused. I'm awash in perplexion. I don't understand how it could possibly have shrunk since the last time I wore it. Perhaps gremlins broke into my house, located this shirt at the back of my wardrobe, pulled it out, took in the seams, hung it back up, left the house and locked it behind themselves.

Aha! No, the front door was open this morning! Clearly that explains it. The gremlins were unable to lock the door behind themselves on their way out.

Watch out, I heard they're headed to your house next.

Since I had to submit myself to torture a few weeks ago, I decided that those I love should share in the experience with me. I arranged for Beandog to have his teeth cleaned. Bottle Rocket Whatever, you should be pleased to hear this. It means his mouth'll be nice and sanitary. I'll send him down to your place so he can greet you with big ol' wet, sloppy kisses.

Since a dog can't (or rather won't) sit nicely on the chair and hold his mouth open, they have to do this under a general anaesthetic. Which means he won't really be tortured at all. He'll just be all stoned. Um...

I, on the other hand, will have to foot the bill for this non-torture. A mere $500 or so. Er...

Crap. He didn't really get to share in any of my pain, did he? In fact, I just added to my misery by signing up for a huge bill so that he could stumble around stoned for the next day or two.

Well, all is not lost... The Stinky Monkey definitely received some torture today. I dropped him off at the same time. He's not getting off as easy as Beandog. Nope. He's getting [gasp!] a haircut. And a bath.

Ha! Somebody to share in my torment!

So I'm planning my trip... I'm getting excited. But you can't read about it here, because I don't frickin' want to write about it twice. So go read about it here. And, for frig's sake, leave a comment!

Re: Dear BigPimpin (1, 2, 3) character and advice column

Please be advised that BigPimpin, who began life as Chris and was later reborn as Chris's advice-giving alter-ego, was meant to be a caricature of Chris, not a realistic picture of him. As of today, Thursday, the 03rd of March, in the year of your Lord 2005, BigPimpin is reborn again. BigPimpin is hereby declared an entity unto himself. Although inspired by him, BigPimpin no longer retains any official affiliations (legal or otherwise) with Chris.

The opinions expressed by BigPimpin are solely his own and do not reflect the opinions of Chris, the Sarcastrix, or any other individual anywhere at any time. The contents of this his advice columns have not been reviewed or approved by the Sarcastrix; the Pope; the Ferengi; the Prime Minister of Canada, the Honourable Tim Horton; or the Better Business Bureau.

In no event shall Chris be liable for any damages whatsoever, including special, indirect or consequential damages, arising out of or in connection with the opinions or beliefs expressed by BigPimpin.

No housemates were harmed in the making of this post.

Hey, here's a spiffy idea for you. Why don't make me look as bad as you possibly can. Then you can charge me $20 for the privilege.

Gee, thanks.

Something was possing™ me off and I was going to write about it.

If only I could remember what it was...
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From now on (read 'until I get really tired of it') Mondays will be the official Dear BigPimpin (1, 2, 3) days. I can only take so much of that crap. Post your letters/questions in the comments section or e-mail them to beandog [at] rogers [dot] com.
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You're no longer allowed to smile in passport photos. Apparently, only terrorists smile. If you see people smiling as they walk around the office, you should shoot them. Clearly, they're up to no good.
______________________________

You heard me. I said 'poss'. Why? Because I can't type for carp™. But I said it and now I'm trademarking it. And if you don't like it you can bute™ me.

In order to distinguish between the real-life actions of Chris and his letters of advice, I'm hereby changing the name of the advice columnist segment of himself to BigPimpin. I don't want any of my imaginary readers to become confused between the real person and the letters he writes*.
_______________________________

-----Original Message-----
From: Rachel
Sent: Tuesday, 1 March 2005 13:50
To: Sarcastrix
Dear BigPimpin,
One of my closest friends is legally blind. She can see things sort of blurrily, but for the most part, can't see well enough to function without a walking stick. She's getting married next week, and as a gift, I took her to a spa and we got all sorts of treatments - manicures, pedicures, massages, and facials. The thing is, she must have had allergies, because the chemical that they used in the facials seems to have stripped most of the skin off of her face, leaving her complexion bumpy, welt-y, red, and gross-looking. Seriously, she looks like a real troll. I haven't told her yet, because I don't know how to approach the subject or suggest that she have a "Masquerade" wedding or something where she could wear a mask. You seem to have profound insights regarding women, so I trust you enough to do what you tell me to.
Sincerely,
The Prettier One

Yoyoyo hey Pretty lady how you doin'
ha ha ha im jus kiddin. you werry two much. this reely cudn't of happened at a better time for ur Troll frend. shes gettin maryd so she dosen't Need to pick up ne more studs. you prolly shud a waited till after the wedding tho cause the Dude mite not wanna merry a slut dat looks like a dog. ok ok i have a idea u shud get ur frend to where 1 of them things over her ugly face in the wedding. an make sure the dude do'nt see her afor then. like mebbe tell him she's got some kinda disease like Chlamydia or something. you jes gotta make sure to tell him she'l b better by the day. im always hapy to help the ladys out wif there problems if theirs anythen else i can do to you jus call me.
BigPimpin

PS chill!!!!!!!!!!!! you shud smoke some Dexter then you wont worry so much.

at 11:53 CBK said...
Dear BigPimpin,
I seem to be psychologically compelled to capitalize the letter "s" whenever I write the word "Smart." No matter the context, I must capitalize that letter every time I use that word. Does this say anything about me? Do you have any insight into such compulsions? Is there a universal rule for such behavior? Thanks for listening and keep up the great advice!

hey dude
i wuz'nt relly sure wat u wuz sayin but sarcostix sais a Catipol is a big letter. dude nobody cares about dat Stuff no more all that grammer and crap its all in the Past. ppl don really use that now. ha ha im jus kidden u shud spell stuff right and do grammer. its importent or ppl r gonna think ur dum.
BigPimpin
_______________________________

*By 'he writes' I mean 'I write and sign his name to'.
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Disclaimer

I think my brain has melted. Writing letters in the voice of Chris has been far more challenging than I thought. Getting inside his head is proving to be quite an arduous task. I need to use some big words to clear my head.

If my literacy continues to wane, I'll be lambasted at work.
Would Chris react with vehemence or with apathy if he were to read these entries?
Would he find them to be scurrilous?
Were those questions rhetorical?

I have a few more letters to Chris to go through, but I think I'll save them for tomorrow. Feel free to send more. I'm sure he'd love to share his thoughts. He's very helpful, that Chris is.

More life lessons from the new poster child for anti-drug campaigns...
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at 09:38 Saint said...
Dear BigPimpin,
Recently, while watching the movie "The Horse Whisperer," I found myself considering what a beautiful animal horses are. Their tight, firm muscles that ripple under their coats of soft fur. The way that fur might feel against your skin. There's something in the eyes of a horse that touches me, and makes me feel that the gentle beast might understand me in a way that few people ever could. I feel drawn to these animals, and the feeling that I have can only be expressed as love. Yes, I am in love with a horse. A female horse, to be sure, but a horse nonetheless. Our love will know no boundaries, and no fence is high enough to keep us apart.
Anyway, after the movie was over, I got up and made a sandwhich. This brings me to my question; should condiments be spread on both pieces of bread or only on one? All of my past relationships have failed based on my belief that mustard and mayo should be evenly devided between bread slices, and I can't seem to find a girl who truly understands this. What should I do?

Ha ha hey try-sexual stud!
u r confused. ur looken at this from a girls prespectif. wat u gotta aks urself is if ur looken for a wife or a slut? if a chick sais shell Sleep wif u its all good. it do'nt matter wat kinda sanwitch she likes to eat or if she dosent eat. Sluts r for 1 thing so if you dont haf too by her Dinner thas good. If u finished with sewing ur wild Horses an ur lookin for a wife tha'ts differnt but not reely. If she wants to get with u for reel then u jest gotta tell her how u like things doen. Don give her a chanse to do it her way or shell be doin it like that always. if she brings u you're dinner an it ai'nt write you Make her do it over again. you gotta tell that Slut whose boss.
ha ha ha jus kidden BigPimpin
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Dear BigPimpin,
As you know, we had a huge snow storm last night. I was unable to drive home, as I live in the Sticks. I tried to call the Sarcastrix, but said she couldn't hear the phone ring on account of the fact that some loser was loudly complaining about sluts, thus drowning out all other sound in a 12-block radius.
I called one of the guys from the office to see if I could stay at his place. He said he didn't want me to because people would think it was strange. I'm confused. He's tried to sleep with me on many occasions, but he freaked out when I wanted to sleep on his couch. It was an emergency and I had nowhere else to go. Should I still go to Mexico with him on vacation?
New Chick

Yo Hot chic,
The guy has evry write to be afrade. If u were sleepin wif him People wud think hes cool. but u jes wanted to sleep on his couch. if other ppl in the office herd that u stayd their but din't get it on wif him they might think hes Gay. Even if it was a emergincy. u wuz sleepin at his house without u know payin 4 it no wat i mean. that makes him Gay. if he don't want ppl thinkin hes Gay then he hasta look out for hemself its nothen Personel.
BigPimpin(I am not Gay)

PS if u go to mexico wif him u better put out.
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Disclaimer

Dear imaginary blog reader,
I shall now pass the keyboard over to the one and only BigPimpin, so that he can respond to your questions. If you keep them coming in, he'll continue to answer them.
The Sarcastrix
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at 05:37 Anonymous said...
Dear BigPimpin,
I caught my boyfriend wearing my sexy undies: he seemed pleased, but not to see me. I called him a pervert, but secretly thought he looked hot. Do you think dressing him totally as a girl and taking him for a Brazilian would be suitably chastising?
LJ

Yo hoe,
ur boyfrend is Gay get over it. lets Talk more abuot you're underwear what do dey look like? Is it that new thing frm Victoria Secrete? Cause thats Hot.
Bigpimpin

PS call me!!!!!!!!!!!
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at 07:47 Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...
Dear BigPimpin,
I have a crowd of vodka-impaired Polacks tripping over themselves in an effort to hunt me down and force me to listen to Argentinian digeridoo music. Performed by them. While they force feed me shots of cheap bathtub potato vodka.
Aside from running and reconstructive facial surgery, what can you suggest to help me avoid this horrible fate?

Hey Car Alarm!
Thas cool Vodkas good. We had a party at are house a few wks ego I drank a lot of vodka and smoked a big J. Their was some good sluts at the party. An ur sayin you don't like music punk? The dayglodoodoo is a awsom instermint. Ur friend polick is weird if he wants to play it in the bathtub tho. Mabey he is Gay. If u wanna get surgery for your face dats ok as longs u dont come out like a chic. Dudes who look lkie chiks are'nt cool and you might be Gay. Not dat theirs anythen wrong wif dat.
BigPimpin (I am not Gay.)
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Disclaimer

I keep going back to the idea bookfraud had last week. He suggested that Chris should write an advice column. I like the idea. I think I'm going to get him to do that. And by 'get him to do that', I mean 'do that and sign his name to it'. Much the same way I did for Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn, but without all the pesky good intentions.

So here's the deal. Tell me all your sad, sob stories. I'll read your letters to Chris and take his dictation as he advises you on how to deal with your issues (keep in mind: he is illiterate). Sign your real name, your fake name or no name at all. Chris will answer whichever letters he finds interesting.

We'll try this out for a while and see how it goes.

On a related note...
We found a hand-written message on the board when we got home on Friday night. It was from Chris. It said,

Hey all you pimps and hoes. Take off you're close we're havin a nakid party.
Get down all the pimps and hoes.

But if you've been dying to hear my voice, perhaps this'll help you imagine it: Anne tells me that Ford does a wicked impression of me.

He speaks a word. Waits a few minutes. Speaks a second word. Waits a few minutes. Speaks a third word. Says 'erm' a few times. Waits a few minutes. Speaks another word. Pauses. Squeals 'ooh, cookies!' He runs off.

On Friday night CbKE, Ford and I went to the movies. The theatre, which was somewhat larger than my car, was packed when we arrived. We took the three remaining seats: in front of a gaggle of giggling teenage girls and next to a couple looking for a dark place to make out. They were tired of being interrupted by her mother, who kept asking them if they wanted more cookies. They tried using his 1992 Honda Civic, but the cops kept banging on the window and asking them if everything was all right.

The lights dimmed and we sat through 16 commercials, pleading with us all to join the army and buy this spiffy new brand of toothpaste. Then we watched a series of trailers. Personally, I'm really looking forward to Kindergarten CopThe Pacifier. Finally, we get to discover Vin Diesel's softer side.

Eventually, they woke us all up to announce that the feature film was about to start. I hope I'm not giving too much away when I tell you that the movie opens with a little girl lying on a merry-go-round. (Funny, isn't that the little girl who's in every movie lately?) She spins faster and faster as her mother pushes her. The girl and her mother are both giggling. (Hmm... Interesting. Totally not the opening I would have expected for Constantine...)

Robert DeNiro appears behind them. (What? Robert DeNiro? I didn't know he was in this.)

Suddenly we're all asking each other which theatre we're in. (Is this Constantine? Are you here for Constantine? Did we accidentally walk into the wrong theatre?)

On screen, the mother is now putting her daughter to bed. It's all very sweet and plodding.

The entire theatre is now grumbling that this is definitely not the right movie. Somebody goes out in search of the theatre staff. A face appears in the projection room. It looks at the projector and the screen and then disappears.

A while later the movie stops. A teenage girl appears and announces that they are searching for the correct reel so that our movie can begin. Somebody asks if we get free popcorn.

No.

[humming... twiddling thumbs... awkward conversation...]

Eventually, the room dims again. We are pleaded with to join the army and use this spiffy new toothpaste. We watch a different set of trailers. After a while, we're woken up to enjoy our feature presentation.

I'm bored, so I think I'll tell you an old, old story. This one's even older than the monkey one. It goes back to my teenage days in good old Edmonton.

I spent some time working the overnight drive-thru at McD's. Now, before you go berating me for my choice in job, keep in mind that this was a long time ago and I was a different person then. And besides... Overnights were just sooooooo entertaining.

At five o'clock we had the customer changeover. The first of the early risers started to make their appearance, while the last of the post-bar crowd were still trickling in.

On this particular night a group of three guys in their late teens came through. The driver seemed sober, but the other two were clearly out of their respective trees. They were all in good moods. Silly, but good-natured... I served them and they pulled into the parking lot to eat.

A few minutes later a Cranky Old Git squealed past the menu board and came to a screeching halt at the pick-up window. I opened the window and was just opening my mouth to speak, when he started shouting.

COG: [pissed off and shouting] Call the police!
Me: [confused and stammering] I'm sorry, sir. What happened?
COG: [still shouting] I said, call the police...
Me: Why? What happened?
COG: ...to pick up the trash!
Me: [really confused] What?
COG: [repeats himself while pointing at the drunk guys eating in the parking lot] I said, call the police to pick up the trash!
Me: I'm sorry, sir, but if you want me to call the police I need to know why. What did they do?
COG: They gave me the finger.
Me: [waiting for rest of story]
COG: Well! What are you waiting for? Go call the police!
Me: I'm sorry, sir. I can't call the police because they gave you the finger.
COG: Are you refusing to do what I tell you???
Me: I'm sorry, sir. I can't call the police because they gave you the finger.
[tires screech as he peels out of the parking lot]

The Cranky Old Git, who had come in every single day until then, didn't come back for six months.

I went and talked to the driver of the other car. He said they'd been eating their food when the Cranky Old Git had pulled into the parking lot. They'd been goofing around, but nothing over the top. When COG drove past them he rolled down his window and shouted a string of obscenities at them. That's why one of them gave him the finger.

When I got home I repeated the story to my mother, She Who Lives in a Bubble. Her response makes the story ten times better.

What finger? Was it a real finger? Where did they get it? Was it in a box?

By popular demand...

A while back Anne started a blog to chronicle her career as a telelmarketer. Said career lasted only a week, and as such there were only two entries in the blog. Immediately afterwards she started her new career as a barrista (to use the stupid, made-up Starbucks term) at a local independent coffee shop.

Knowing first-hand that customers = much funny, I have encouraged her to turn the blog into the Amazing Life of a Coffee-Hating Coffee Queen. She promises she will.

I've activated the link, in the hopes that we can all peer-pressure her into blogging her adventures in coffeeland.

Update:
Read Anne's 'epic tale of one girl's encounters with the stupid kind that is rapidly destroying the earth' at the Spreading Disease of Stupidity.

A few weeks ago I got a raise. A silly little raise... For some reason, the raise was made effective as of the beginning of the year. You know what that means? Yup, back pay.

Today I got my back-pay cheque. It amounts to $125 (before taxes). Oh, isn't that sweet! I could buy, um... something or other.

Friggin'!

I just watched the trailer for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. First off, they've all got friggin' American accents. Well, except for Martin Freeman, so I guess there's that at least. But still...

Secondly, am I the only one who noticed the fact that Zaphod (now pronounced Zāphod — ugh!) has got one head? One. He's missing a head! Good grief, what's up with that?
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Matthew wrote in yesterday to bemoan the fact that the wrong Stargate actor is gay. Michael Shanks is the one he really wants. I have bad news for you, Matthew. Anne already has dibs on him. And she'll fight you for him. Sadly, though, his wife would probably have something to say about it.

Besides, the both of you, hello! He's old! Icky! You want to see really hot guys? Look here or here or here. Or here. Okay. I'm going to stop now.
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I liked ER last night. Did anybody else? Does anybody even watch ER anymore? And yes, Anne, that really does mean that I skipped the season eight episode of Stargate to watch ER. So there!
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Hmm... How very interesting... Three of the four guys I mentioned are vegetarians. How odd is that?
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I'm hungry. I'm going to go get me some breakfast.

The US government says it's perplexed as to why Canada would decline to participate in its weapons of mass detruction programme missile defence programme. I say, if the US government really wants to know what it means to be perplexed, they should come to my house and have a conversation with Chris.

It seems Chris was serious about looking for a new line of work. He asked me to edit his covering letter for him.

I looked at it this morning and sent it back to him with a note that he should re-write it. I sent him a link to a site telling him how to write a covering letter. There's no point in correcting the spelling and grammar of a document that is precisely not what it is meant to be.

The funny thing, though, is how he signed the e-mail itself.

cheers
Chris (Stargate SG-1)

P.S: Not the Gay Guy.

Leaving aside the bizarre capitalisation and grammar, is that not just a completely absurd thing to say?

He says he did a lot of drugs in university. I think he could be the poster child for a new anti-drug campaign. Never mind the scrambled egg, kids, this is your brain on drugs.

Hmm... I wonder how long IAMNOTSTRESSED!'s report would be if she didn't repeat entire paragraphs verbatim. Three times!

What? Is she paid by the word?

I have a bad headache. I'm completely exhausted due to four nights in a row of poor and interrupted sleep. I have a cold and my sinuses may explode. And right now, I don't like anybody.

I do, however, have a very, very nice chair.

...that I really don't get women?

Mean what you say! Say what you mean! And, for frig's sake, don't look so surprised when you discover that I actually meant what I said!

I was reading Peeved Michelle's rants about the Smarmy Leprechaun, and it got me thinking about annoying co-workers.

And then my mind wandered a bit.

The following is a true story, but it's an old one. From back in the days when I worked for a large, international copy shop, which recently merged with a large, international delivery company... I was the customer service manager for the Canadian shops. My boss was the operations manager for the same (Executive Monkey No. 1). His boss was the operations director for all shops outside the US (Executive Monkey No. 2).

Periodically, I would have to make presentations to the upper management team (Executive Monkeys Nos. 1-5) regarding trends in customer service. I generally got about two hours notice to pull these presentations out of my arse.

On one such occasion, after spending the morning madly scrambling to create a presentation out of nothing, I passed out my handouts to the team. They immediately started to ooh and aw and make clucking noises.

Executive Monkey No. 1: Oh! It's in colour. That's nice.
Executive Monkey No. 2: How pretty!
Executive Monkey No. 3: Look, there's green, and there's some blue. Oh, and if you turn the page, there's some red!

They all thought of me as an idiot child, hired to do a make-work job, and rubbed my nose in this fact as often as possible. I ignored the absurd comments and proceeded to launch into my presentation.

Since Executive Monkey No. 2 was the only out-of-towner in the bunch and the highest ranking monkey, I began by facing him. Moments into my presentation, he began scratching his, er, package. He didn't seem to care particularly that I was watching, and did absolutely nothing to hide the fact. It seemed like the sort of process that might take quite some time.

I decided to focus my eyes elsewhere. He might not mind people watching him, but I minded being the watcher. I turned to Executive Monkey No. 1, who held the next highest rank. He had his right arm all the way up his nose and was busy digging for gold.

I turned again, and was faced with Executive Monkey No. 3, the CFO. Executive Monkey No. 3 despised Executive Monkeys Nos. 1 & 2. He saw what they were doing, and proceeded to turn a very pretty shade of red. In case there's any confusion here, this is anger we're talking about, not embarrassment.

I gave the remainder of my presentation facing Executive Monkeys Nos. 4 & 5, both of whom were asleep.

Chris continues to perplex us all. The other night we were watching TV when he got home from work. He came in and sat down, saying 'Oh, this is That Show with the Gay Guy*'.

The weird thing was that, when the commercial came on, he made an uncharacteristically insightful and/or witty comment. We all got it and laughed. You know, in a good way. Sadly, I can't recall what on earth it was. But the universe quickly returned to its normal state a moment later, when he started saying things nobody understood.

Yesterday evening Chris told me that he's bored of his job. It's boring, he said. All he ever does is work with numbers and he's tired of it. Umm... He's an accountant (or so he claims). He's been one for all of six months.

Chris: I want to work in the entertainment industry.
Me: Doing what?
Chris: Whatever. Entertaining people...
Me: Like an actor or a comedian?
Chris: Exactly. Except... [short pause] Well, not an actor. Not a comedian. But entertaining people.
Me: What then, stripping?
Chris: Ha ha. Exactly.
[long pause]
Chris: I want to be a promoter for a night club.

Right. There's a promising career. Your over-achieving parents will be so proud. Our son, the drug-addict...

Later last night I had the extreme privilege of listening to a conversation between Ford and Chris. I had gone to bed, and they were in the dining room. My bedroom is next to the dining room and Chris is very, very loud. Ford had just returned from his date-that-was-not-a-date-well-maybe. Chris began to grill him about what had transpired. He was the very image of Eric Idle in the Nudge, Nudge, Wink, Wink sketch. Say no more...

He then proceeded to give Ford all sorts of helpful hints on how to woo a girl. Ford has the sense not to listen. Right? Good grief, I hope Ford has that much sense. Ford, are you listening? Do not take advice from Chris. Ever. On anything. But especially, especially do not take his advice on women. Those aren't the sort of women you want.

*He overheard CbKE, Ford, Anne and I talking about the fact that Christopher Judge, who plays Teal'c on Stargate, is in reality very, very gay. Or possibly just comically, over-the-top camp... Whatever. Flamboyant actor plays stoic character. Chris now refers to Stargate as That Show with the Gay Guy.

Ugh. I had to settle for milk on my corn flakes. How revolting! Apparently, I've heard, some people do this every day.

Why?

Nibbler's gone home. We'll miss her. Well, mostly... I won't miss her favourite game: hide-n-go-poop.

She's too small and delicate to go outside. She's supposed to use these potty pad things. And she does. For peeing. I think she's decided that pooping on them would be indecorous or indelicate or unladylike or something. She prefers to poop in more [ahem] discrete places. You know, behind things or under things.

Either fortunately or unfortunately (depending upon one's point of view), teeny-weeny poops make big, big smells.

We'd be sitting there and all of a sudden the room would be filled with the most noxious fumes since The Dog Whose Name Means Marijuana last visited. It's interesting to note that they're sisters. Hmmm...

Anyways... Noxious fumes... You know there's a poop to contend with, but now you've got to find the poop. Hurray! What a fun game!

On a related note, Cute but Kind of Evil has actually written in her blog. Why is it related, you ask. Read for yourself.

On a vaguely related note, I got another google hit. Nobody ever finds me by googling porn in spite of the frequency of which the word porn appears on this site. Mostly, people find me by searching for 'stewie maxim interview'. I haven't got it, but it is funny. I got a new google hit yesterday: poopooheads. Cool.

What's that old adage about making friends with the administrative staff? Something about all the influence they have and whatever.

First Bridget, and now Jadis... Jadis is she who outlawed plants. I have never had an actual conversation with her. A word here and there, nothing unfriendly... Until today.

I decided to brave some of the Starbucks swill we have here for the simple reason that I may be cheap but I do need my fix.

Uh oh. No cream. Not even any milk. Ugh.

I need cream for my coffee and for my corn flakes, so I decided to do what Meat Guy taught me to do: pilfer some from the Executive Kitchen. I walked over there and opened the fridge. There was a little bit of milk, but no cream. Ugh.

I walked to the front desk. The receptionist wasn't in yet, so Jadis was sitting there. She was talking to somebody, so I waited. When she finished her conversation she turned to me.

'Yes', she said in a voice that could easily freeze all Narnia. 'What can I do for you?'

I asked her if she knew if there was any cream anywhere.

'For what?', she demanded. As though I clearly had some evil plans for it... Like I wanted to steal the company's cream and sell it on the black market for fun and profit...

When I said it was for coffee, she asked me if I'd looked. Of course I looked, you self-righteous, illegitimate offspring of a vapid whore and an eight-timing politician with cheese for brains! Did she think I walked all the way from my desk because I was too stupid to look in the fridge?

When I said I had looked, she asked me if I had found any. Again, if I had found any, why on earth would I walk all the way out to the reception area to ask if there were any?

'Well, then there isn't any'.

And that, dear reader, is why I went downstairs and bought a ridiculously expensive but oh-so-good latte from my old friend, Timothy.

I'm still drinking the coffee I bought this morning on my way to work.

As I walked to work, I (mentally) wrote a whole post on coffee and coffee shops and different neighbourhoods. I haven't had time to put it together. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

One of the analysts quit yesterday. I'm wondering... Hmm... His office is quite a ways from my mini-cube. I don't know if I could get away with it. I got my snazzy mouse this way. The company has no objection to spending money on 'real' staff, but, as the editor, I count as support staff.

I might go get me a chair.

But a chair's a bit more noticeable than a mouse. Wheeling it down the office, smacking into people, knocking stuff over, I'd draw a fair amount of attention to myself. If Bridget Jones liked me, I'd get away with it. As it is, my continued existence is a constant source of irritation to her. I'm sure she'd relish the chance to take an undeserved luxury away from me. She'd probably point out that I was only worth the $35 Ikea model. Nicer chairs are reserved for people who earn them; you know, like the analysts, the assistants, the Ferengi, New Chick, the out of town employees who come to the office every so often, and that office the plants used to use.

I know! I'll get New Chick to make the swap once everybody else has gone home.

Ha!
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Update:
The bond traders all got new chairs yesterday. I swiped one of their old ones. It's a goood chair: comfy, supportive, solid. It looks like somebody spilled some coffee on it. I mean, I hope that's coffee. Oh, and get this: it's Beandog-coloured, meaning my chair will no longer look as though he's the one who's been sitting in it. Well, actually it will, but not noticeably so. Whatever. It's comfy.
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Update to the update:
Last night New Chick took the chair I swiped from the bond desk and swapped it with the one I really wanted.

Sweet success!

It looks like I'm going to have to do some, like, work at work this morning.

[sigh]