"Cancel my subscription. I'm tired of your issues!" Trina shouted at everyone.
"Enough of this diatribe, I'm moving to Canada to live in a tree house. All the fucking crazy people in the world can leave me the hell alone" she continued.
....And other emphatically howled expressions of anger, frustration, and deepest disgust.....
Friday, July 20, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Snakes in Pain.
God help anyone that would preface a blog this way, but...
When "Snakes on a Plane" was released, there were all these hilarious knock-off shirts with little cartoon snakes performing various actions. "Snakes in the Rain" portrayed a tiny 'S' squiggle with a miniature umbrella, for example. There were also "Snakes in Spain," and my favorites, "Snakes Insane" and "Snakes in Pain" (!). Here was a bitty squiggle with a bandage wrapped around his wee tail.
All this to say, we had a fucking copperhead in our building at work. Yup. There was a poisonous snake hissing and striking at a co-worker in the hallway day before yesterday. Not long before that, we'd had the mother of all rats (which we finally caught in the women's bathroom). This thing was this size of, I don't know, like, a chihuahua, or something.
Right, back to the snake. My rant here is this: I present this copperhead as evidence of the cracked nature of the world I inhabit. How is it that deadly snakes just traipse in and out of here unchecked, and no one thinks it's weird? Certainly it gives me something to think about. Yet I know that if a snake had gotten in to the main office, everyone would've flipped out. But it's okay, here, for everything to be ghetto.
Conditions of my extracirricular activies / employments have always been relatively shanty. In high school we were "The Little Speech Team That Could." In college, we were the undervalued, underappreciated, underfunded (though completely stellar) "Drama Productions Produced Out of Thin Air." And now there are snakes....
I cut out a paper snake and we hung it on the door, a warning to all those who enter, "Beware! Snakes on Premises."
But there is a deadly ending to this serpentine tale of ickiness. The copperhead in question got its head cut off by a snow shovel and is now being eaten by ants. Snakes in Pain indeed....
When "Snakes on a Plane" was released, there were all these hilarious knock-off shirts with little cartoon snakes performing various actions. "Snakes in the Rain" portrayed a tiny 'S' squiggle with a miniature umbrella, for example. There were also "Snakes in Spain," and my favorites, "Snakes Insane" and "Snakes in Pain" (!). Here was a bitty squiggle with a bandage wrapped around his wee tail.
All this to say, we had a fucking copperhead in our building at work. Yup. There was a poisonous snake hissing and striking at a co-worker in the hallway day before yesterday. Not long before that, we'd had the mother of all rats (which we finally caught in the women's bathroom). This thing was this size of, I don't know, like, a chihuahua, or something.
Right, back to the snake. My rant here is this: I present this copperhead as evidence of the cracked nature of the world I inhabit. How is it that deadly snakes just traipse in and out of here unchecked, and no one thinks it's weird? Certainly it gives me something to think about. Yet I know that if a snake had gotten in to the main office, everyone would've flipped out. But it's okay, here, for everything to be ghetto.
Conditions of my extracirricular activies / employments have always been relatively shanty. In high school we were "The Little Speech Team That Could." In college, we were the undervalued, underappreciated, underfunded (though completely stellar) "Drama Productions Produced Out of Thin Air." And now there are snakes....
I cut out a paper snake and we hung it on the door, a warning to all those who enter, "Beware! Snakes on Premises."
But there is a deadly ending to this serpentine tale of ickiness. The copperhead in question got its head cut off by a snow shovel and is now being eaten by ants. Snakes in Pain indeed....
Friday, July 6, 2007
Random acts of Humor.
I'm about died over this one, promise.
Now listen, the hilarity of this situation simply does not register at the appropriate notch on the "Fun-O-Meter" unless you hear the voice that accompanies the story, but we'll make do for the moment. There's a lady who's been calling into the trading post show we produce for the past several days. And when I say- well, just listen to what she's selling:
"AAAAA --- YYEEEESSSS! (she speaks loudly - and you can tell, even on the phone, that she's speaking in ALL CAPS) - I've got a UNICORRRRNNNNN fer saaaaale. It's got, AAAAA, one horn."
This is not a prank call. It's an older lady. Dead serious.
I'm sitting at my desk, doing my daily updates. I turn to the TV to find the host, live, on-air, hunched over his clipboard, absolutely shaking with laughter. I nearly fall in the floor.
Truly, at this point, my hopes are in the air. A Unicorn! If I was four I would have danced around the room. But being the distinguished twenty-three year old that I am, I remain cautiously optimistic that, indeed, a local personage has gone into the mythical beast wrangling business...
Yet, it was all for naught. As an afterthought, after a moment, I suspect, to reflect on what she has just professed to selling, the lady adds:
"It's, aaaaaa, ceramic, aaaaa, a ceraaamicccc unicoooorrrnn."
Nuts. My dreams are shattered. But again, I try to contain my grief behind a mask of passivity. Perhaps tomorrow.... Now around the office, some say it was that the woman explained that the unicorn only had one horn that made this situation so funny. Others say it was the woman's voice that cinched the humor of it. *I* say it was because this lady called in and said she had a frickin' UNICORN FOR SALE! However, I'll let you decide.
(As a side note, I'll mention that my mother said I should call in to the show the next morning and say that I want to BUY a unicorn, but that I can't take it if it's only got one horn.... :)
Oh! Maybe I've mentioned it. What about the woman who called in and announced to all the viewers out there in TV land that she had, not kidding here folks, "a hairy weiner for sale."
You can't make this up. My life simply CANNOT be this funny. I love it.
Again, I turn from my computer toward the television set in my office to find the show's host barely, *BARELY* supressing laughter. And again, it's only as an afterthought, that this woman adds, "You know, one of those Dachshunds?" Now, invariably, the lady couldn't find the words to express that she had "a long-haired dachshund for sale." Yet, it's the eloquence and beauty (and ambiguity) with which she expressed her desires that made the whole situation so exquisite.
Freud, I believe, would have something to say about this one....
Now listen, the hilarity of this situation simply does not register at the appropriate notch on the "Fun-O-Meter" unless you hear the voice that accompanies the story, but we'll make do for the moment. There's a lady who's been calling into the trading post show we produce for the past several days. And when I say- well, just listen to what she's selling:
"AAAAA --- YYEEEESSSS! (she speaks loudly - and you can tell, even on the phone, that she's speaking in ALL CAPS) - I've got a UNICORRRRNNNNN fer saaaaale. It's got, AAAAA, one horn."
This is not a prank call. It's an older lady. Dead serious.
I'm sitting at my desk, doing my daily updates. I turn to the TV to find the host, live, on-air, hunched over his clipboard, absolutely shaking with laughter. I nearly fall in the floor.
Truly, at this point, my hopes are in the air. A Unicorn! If I was four I would have danced around the room. But being the distinguished twenty-three year old that I am, I remain cautiously optimistic that, indeed, a local personage has gone into the mythical beast wrangling business...
Yet, it was all for naught. As an afterthought, after a moment, I suspect, to reflect on what she has just professed to selling, the lady adds:
"It's, aaaaaa, ceramic, aaaaa, a ceraaamicccc unicoooorrrnn."
Nuts. My dreams are shattered. But again, I try to contain my grief behind a mask of passivity. Perhaps tomorrow.... Now around the office, some say it was that the woman explained that the unicorn only had one horn that made this situation so funny. Others say it was the woman's voice that cinched the humor of it. *I* say it was because this lady called in and said she had a frickin' UNICORN FOR SALE! However, I'll let you decide.
(As a side note, I'll mention that my mother said I should call in to the show the next morning and say that I want to BUY a unicorn, but that I can't take it if it's only got one horn.... :)
Oh! Maybe I've mentioned it. What about the woman who called in and announced to all the viewers out there in TV land that she had, not kidding here folks, "a hairy weiner for sale."
You can't make this up. My life simply CANNOT be this funny. I love it.
Again, I turn from my computer toward the television set in my office to find the show's host barely, *BARELY* supressing laughter. And again, it's only as an afterthought, that this woman adds, "You know, one of those Dachshunds?" Now, invariably, the lady couldn't find the words to express that she had "a long-haired dachshund for sale." Yet, it's the eloquence and beauty (and ambiguity) with which she expressed her desires that made the whole situation so exquisite.
Freud, I believe, would have something to say about this one....
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Conversion. Like Metric?
I'm afraid I haven't any humorous antecdotes today. Just frustration and irritaion.
I've been wondering, recently more than usual, what the hell makes my soul so bloody valuable that every effing person from here to Timbuktu is trying to convert me to the path of Jesus. It's like people think they're going to get Brownie Points with God if they can conquer and convert the soul of one Super Mitten. I can't take two steps and spit without hitting a concerned, pious individual who's hell-bent on saving my everlasting soul from the stinging flames of eternal damnation's fires.
For the most part, I try to mind my own business where religion is concerned, keep my religious views and opinions to myself (one of the few subjects, for anyone who knows me, that I remain relatively mum about, unless asked directly). I *try* to be tolerant of others' views, though my patience wears thin, inevitably, when confronted with those wildly fanatical zealots who populate the area.
And it's fine, I feel, to let people know where you stand with regard to religion, politics, whatever. There's nothing better than a sound, intelligent conversation about religion. I love it. But the problem is, people tend (particularly, it seems, where I am concerned) to force-convert you without bothering to find out what you believe in the first place. And apparently I've had "I Worship Satan" tatooed on my forehead since I was five, because since then, my life as been one long string of attempts by concerned do-gooders to reform my troubled umbra.
But in this area (or perhaps in this world) one's religious fraternization, political affiliation, even one's sexual preference seems to be conditional. Who you're speaking to, talking about, looking at, or even thinking of governs which side of the fence you stand on at the moment. That alone is justification, in my book, to avoid jumping into the belly of the churning hypocritical, propaganda endorsing machine running local churches, schools, and perhaps most sadly, governmental organizations. Nevermind the fact that, last time I checked, the person who converts the most troubled souls doesn't get moved to the front of the cosmic/theologic queue at Heaven's Gate (or wherever).
Certainly, I would be ignorant to admonish all this and feign guiltlessness. I sin, like everyone. I'm as big a hypocrite as the next person. I have my vices. (And I love some of them...) And too much, probably, I wear them on my sleeve. Perhaps that's why I'm such an easy target for the "Fanatical Converters" of the world. Or maybe I've just been at the receiving end of an onslaught of conversion recently. Maybe everyone's trying to convert everyone. It's human nature, I 'spose, to try to "convert" those in your sightline toward your POV.
Regardless, I'm just babbling. God save the lunatics....
I've been wondering, recently more than usual, what the hell makes my soul so bloody valuable that every effing person from here to Timbuktu is trying to convert me to the path of Jesus. It's like people think they're going to get Brownie Points with God if they can conquer and convert the soul of one Super Mitten. I can't take two steps and spit without hitting a concerned, pious individual who's hell-bent on saving my everlasting soul from the stinging flames of eternal damnation's fires.
For the most part, I try to mind my own business where religion is concerned, keep my religious views and opinions to myself (one of the few subjects, for anyone who knows me, that I remain relatively mum about, unless asked directly). I *try* to be tolerant of others' views, though my patience wears thin, inevitably, when confronted with those wildly fanatical zealots who populate the area.
And it's fine, I feel, to let people know where you stand with regard to religion, politics, whatever. There's nothing better than a sound, intelligent conversation about religion. I love it. But the problem is, people tend (particularly, it seems, where I am concerned) to force-convert you without bothering to find out what you believe in the first place. And apparently I've had "I Worship Satan" tatooed on my forehead since I was five, because since then, my life as been one long string of attempts by concerned do-gooders to reform my troubled umbra.
But in this area (or perhaps in this world) one's religious fraternization, political affiliation, even one's sexual preference seems to be conditional. Who you're speaking to, talking about, looking at, or even thinking of governs which side of the fence you stand on at the moment. That alone is justification, in my book, to avoid jumping into the belly of the churning hypocritical, propaganda endorsing machine running local churches, schools, and perhaps most sadly, governmental organizations. Nevermind the fact that, last time I checked, the person who converts the most troubled souls doesn't get moved to the front of the cosmic/theologic queue at Heaven's Gate (or wherever).
Certainly, I would be ignorant to admonish all this and feign guiltlessness. I sin, like everyone. I'm as big a hypocrite as the next person. I have my vices. (And I love some of them...) And too much, probably, I wear them on my sleeve. Perhaps that's why I'm such an easy target for the "Fanatical Converters" of the world. Or maybe I've just been at the receiving end of an onslaught of conversion recently. Maybe everyone's trying to convert everyone. It's human nature, I 'spose, to try to "convert" those in your sightline toward your POV.
Regardless, I'm just babbling. God save the lunatics....
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