Busiest Monday at work that I can remember. Busiest DAY at work that I can remember.
That's cool though.
------------------------------------------------------------
My day started pretty rough. First of all, 6am comes way too fucking early. I hate that. I could barely get out of bed. So, I was running late, of course. Backed my NEW car into an ice dune. No damage, thank goodness, just scared the hell out of me.
I get to work just BARELY on time, but the web based time card system wasn't "available", so refused to punch in. I wasn't late, and I wasn't going to let it show that I was. I just have to keep reminding my boss to punch me in.
Anyway. As Mondays go, I guess this one was a 5 on the shit scale, instead of what it usually is.
Sorry for the boring post, but I can't concentrate because my boyfriend won't shut the fuck up about his stupid basketball game against FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS.
I hate basketball. And mondays. Fuck you both.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
February 15th was so shitty I forgot to post!
So, not much exciting happened to me yesterday. Other than being busy at work, and having my poor boss ready to throw in the towel, because 2 of our machines decided to be dickholes. All's fine today (Tuesday).
Instead of boring you with my non exciting monday drivel, I decided to google "shitty monday stories" to bring you a tale from the interwebz. I give to you a tale so disgusting, you will cry with laughter. I know I did. I am directly copying/pasting from the website, so all spelling/grammar errors are left as they were originally written. The author seems to be adverse to swearing, so all the **** are from him. I hope this happened on a Monday.
My friends, please enjoy this tale taken from: http://www.shittystories.com/2006/08/why-you-dont-answer-your-phone-in.html
Author: Unknown
__________________________________________________________
All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent co-workers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of ass cleansing fibre cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for the wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign
proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about togo.
I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to theoccupied one.
3. **** smeared on seat.
4. **** and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered onseat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn’t
happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a
cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs.
****ter about the ****ty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish.
As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My ass let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other
hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude — a cross between the sound
of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.
It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots,
and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actuallymanaged to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little ****tles of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up… in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My ****-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was
thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the
bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous ****-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to **** in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the latrine.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.
Instead of boring you with my non exciting monday drivel, I decided to google "shitty monday stories" to bring you a tale from the interwebz. I give to you a tale so disgusting, you will cry with laughter. I know I did. I am directly copying/pasting from the website, so all spelling/grammar errors are left as they were originally written. The author seems to be adverse to swearing, so all the **** are from him. I hope this happened on a Monday.
My friends, please enjoy this tale taken from: http://www.shittystories.com/2006/08/why-you-dont-answer-your-phone-in.html
Author: Unknown
__________________________________________________________
All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent co-workers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of ass cleansing fibre cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for the wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign
proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about togo.
I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to theoccupied one.
3. **** smeared on seat.
4. **** and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered onseat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn’t
happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a
cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs.
****ter about the ****ty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish.
As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My ass let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other
hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude — a cross between the sound
of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.
It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots,
and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actuallymanaged to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little ****tles of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up… in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My ****-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was
thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the
bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous ****-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to **** in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the latrine.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Monday February 8, 2010
Today begins Hell Week at work.
Our part timer is off this week (lucky ass), so it's just me and the boss man....and the 500 lbs of work that comes in. Work is good and all, but damn, a break would be nice!
Today I'm going to be a little more serious in my blogging. Last Monday, after I posted, I got the news that an old friend from high school passed away.
It dredged up a lot of feelings: sadness, disbelief, shock, anger, and numbness.
Tara and I were not close friends....I actually had not seen her in 15 yrs (since graduation day), but through the miracles of modern technology (Facebook), we reconnected. I chatted with her through comments on her wall for a couple months. I got a glimpse into her life; she was still in the Airforce, she was married, she had 3 children. Her family just got transferred to another service post, after spending many years in Florida. I don't think the move was an easy one for her or her family. But, anyone who has ever known or loved anyone in the military knows this: Home Is Where The Government Sends You. So, they moved.
I always enjoyed seeing what she was up to, and offering my little $.02 here and there.
I can't imagine the pain that her family and her friends are living with now. My heart goes out to all of them.
The reality of life is this: Nothing is guaranteed. If you love someone, tell them now. Do what you need to to do to make your life happy. If that means moving away, changing your career, changing your partner...do it. Life is simply too short to be anything but happy.
Your regular, angst filled, sarcastic, funny (I hope) Monday post will return next week.
Monday? I still hate you, fuck you.
Our part timer is off this week (lucky ass), so it's just me and the boss man....and the 500 lbs of work that comes in. Work is good and all, but damn, a break would be nice!
Today I'm going to be a little more serious in my blogging. Last Monday, after I posted, I got the news that an old friend from high school passed away.
It dredged up a lot of feelings: sadness, disbelief, shock, anger, and numbness.
Tara and I were not close friends....I actually had not seen her in 15 yrs (since graduation day), but through the miracles of modern technology (Facebook), we reconnected. I chatted with her through comments on her wall for a couple months. I got a glimpse into her life; she was still in the Airforce, she was married, she had 3 children. Her family just got transferred to another service post, after spending many years in Florida. I don't think the move was an easy one for her or her family. But, anyone who has ever known or loved anyone in the military knows this: Home Is Where The Government Sends You. So, they moved.
I always enjoyed seeing what she was up to, and offering my little $.02 here and there.
I can't imagine the pain that her family and her friends are living with now. My heart goes out to all of them.
The reality of life is this: Nothing is guaranteed. If you love someone, tell them now. Do what you need to to do to make your life happy. If that means moving away, changing your career, changing your partner...do it. Life is simply too short to be anything but happy.
Your regular, angst filled, sarcastic, funny (I hope) Monday post will return next week.
Monday? I still hate you, fuck you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Monday, you are Satan.
Dear Monday,
Can we please, please just one time have a good start?? Hiding my keys at 0645 is not a cool joke, even if you are Ashton Kutcher. Not fun.
Kthxbai!
----
So, you can see how my day started out. Keys were hiding in my purse, and I had to dump the damn thing out TWICE before they magically appeared. This made me about 5 minutes late for work. Thank God, there were no patients waiting.
Mondays at my job are never fun. We essentially work short, now, on Mondays because our part timer, wised up and said "hey bitches, I am a PART TIMER, give me an extra day off". Monday is the day.
Also, it's the beginning of the new month, so that means, as far as "billing" (that would be me.) is concerned, the old month needs to be closed. I have roughly at least 400 more slips to enter charges on, AND I had a busy patient day, AND I have to help out with some of the more menial "back lab" tasks. (meaning, when our samples get couriered over, I have to help get them entered in the computer and ready for the tech to run the test). Today, at 1:00, the courier drops off TWO coolers full of work. Easily over 40 bags of samples. I literally saw red.
TODAY, Monday, you asshole, was the day EVERY OFFICE was busy. Of course, because that's how it is for me. (I'm not going to get into how shitty it is for my boss---he's the only one who can run the testing because this is MY blog, and if he wants to vent/bitch/cry he can start his own)
So, it's 1:00, and patients are still coming in, so I have to stop accessioning samples and draw patients, and then go back to the computer work, all while I'm starving, because I can't go to lunch until that's done. People, the hungrier I get, the crankier I get, so there was much slamming and cussing, and very loudly heavy sighing, and none of that was getting my work done any faster.
FINALLY at 2, I was free to go stuff my face. And I did. And because it's Monday, and Monday is SATAN, I will gain 30 extra pounds from my lunch.
And all I have to say is:
FUCK YOU MONDAY! Fuck you raw with a chainsaw you fucking bitch!
Can we please, please just one time have a good start?? Hiding my keys at 0645 is not a cool joke, even if you are Ashton Kutcher. Not fun.
Kthxbai!
----
So, you can see how my day started out. Keys were hiding in my purse, and I had to dump the damn thing out TWICE before they magically appeared. This made me about 5 minutes late for work. Thank God, there were no patients waiting.
Mondays at my job are never fun. We essentially work short, now, on Mondays because our part timer, wised up and said "hey bitches, I am a PART TIMER, give me an extra day off". Monday is the day.
Also, it's the beginning of the new month, so that means, as far as "billing" (that would be me.) is concerned, the old month needs to be closed. I have roughly at least 400 more slips to enter charges on, AND I had a busy patient day, AND I have to help out with some of the more menial "back lab" tasks. (meaning, when our samples get couriered over, I have to help get them entered in the computer and ready for the tech to run the test). Today, at 1:00, the courier drops off TWO coolers full of work. Easily over 40 bags of samples. I literally saw red.
TODAY, Monday, you asshole, was the day EVERY OFFICE was busy. Of course, because that's how it is for me. (I'm not going to get into how shitty it is for my boss---he's the only one who can run the testing because this is MY blog, and if he wants to vent/bitch/cry he can start his own)
So, it's 1:00, and patients are still coming in, so I have to stop accessioning samples and draw patients, and then go back to the computer work, all while I'm starving, because I can't go to lunch until that's done. People, the hungrier I get, the crankier I get, so there was much slamming and cussing, and very loudly heavy sighing, and none of that was getting my work done any faster.
FINALLY at 2, I was free to go stuff my face. And I did. And because it's Monday, and Monday is SATAN, I will gain 30 extra pounds from my lunch.
And all I have to say is:
FUCK YOU MONDAY! Fuck you raw with a chainsaw you fucking bitch!
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