Archive for January, 2006

Seriously, right up to his elbow

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 31, 2006 @ 1:15 pm
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, horror and potty humor
. 18 Comments

This weekend ACWF and I decided to try things a little differently. Typically we’re quite nice to one another, but Saturday morning we decided to be downright masochistic. ACWF had been trying do do irreparable harm to herself for weeks to no avail. Finally I agreed to help her with her game of pain, hoping it would bring us closer in the long run.

I bit the bullet, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain to commence. ACWF started the car and drove us to the Motor Vehicle Administration.

ACWF needed to renew her license, but the only time she could really make it to the MVA was on the weekend, so I decided to go with her to keep her company. When we arrived we found the other patrons to be in a playful mood. I figured that they were playing charades to pass the time, and it was up to us to guess that they were hundreds of sardines stuffed into a tin can. ACWF thought we had interrupted a world-record attempt at fitting hundreds of people into a tiny, uncomfortable room. We were both wrong. That’s just how the MVA likes to keep people while the are waiting. I imagine that when the machines that build the Matrix take over our society, they’ll probably look to the MVA as an example of how to best slowly suck the life out of humans en masse.

ACWF took a number (156) and we then tried to find a place to sit down (ha ha). The MVA has recently upgraded its offices to better serve the citizenry. First, they made it possible for you to get all your necessary renewal steps completed at one desk. No more waiting in one line for an eye test, waiting in another line for your picture to be taken, waiting in a third line for large, hairy man to shove his arm up to his elbow into your rectum so he can tug on your colon three times. Now the hairy man just waits for you to start the eye test, and the whole process is sped along. So you wait for your number to appear over one of the desks. Lucky for us, they were on 70 when we arrived.

Two spectacular hours later we emerged from the MVA victorious, but psychologically battered. We were surrounded by people on cell phones, and one particularly ignorant gentleman didn’t care if anyone was listening, because he wanted his friend to know that, “You never want help a nigga, you only wanna hold a nigga back. I’m tryin’ to go out and get drunk tonight, have a good time, and you hatin’. When I see you, I’ma choke you, and then I’ma beat your motherfuckin’ ass.” Delightful.

We were also able to get a good look at the frighteningly ugly people that populate our region and who somehow manage to circumvent the odds and find a partner. This partner is also always blighted with similar facial/rectal indistinguishablility. Then they, and their whole assfaced family (including assfaced babies [seriously, if you want to see a real-life commercial for condoms/birth control/forced sterilization, just go to the MVA]), waddle down to the MVA and take up all the seats while making grunting noises and rolling in slop.

We also learned that MVA has a certain smell, and that smell is old cigarette butts and sweatpants that have never been cleaned. ACWF and I, dressed in jeans and tshirts, were by far the best dressed people there. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see someone in a undershirt/pants combo made completely from dirty diapers and duct tape and saying that they shouldn’t have come to the MVA in their wedding clothes.

Just before ACWF was called to the booth to go through the rigmarole of getting her new ID, a baby started crying, and that was the icing on the cake. It’s like when you’re naked and chained down to a table, and someone has slowly been working you over for weeks, pulling out your eyelashes one by one, slipping bamboo shoots under your finger and toenails, dislocating and relocating all your joints, cutting open your stomach and then releasing a starving rat into your intestines before sewing you shut. And then, after so many hours, days, and weeks of pain, your torturer slowly cuts your eyelids off and puts a cigar out in your unblinking, blood-covered eyeball, and you think, “Finally! I am in utter and absolute pain, and my brain can now turn to mush.” The baby crying was exactly that last horrible act to break our souls.

I don’t even think there was a baby there. I just think the MVA pumps in a sound effect over the speakers every few hours.

Things I hate that I think other people really like

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Anonymous Coworker
on January 31, 2006 @ 9:30 am
in bitches, food, sex and word nerd
. 29 Comments

Beef- It’s pretty much the grossest meat in the country for about 2 dozen reasons. I know that all the chicken and turkey I eat aren’t particularly clean, but by comparison, chicken is a NASA clean room to the maggoty bucket of feces that is beef.

Confederacy of Dunces- I know lots of people like this book, but I thought it was pretty boring. And I didn’t appreciate the author ignoring details related to naming his characters, his 3rd person narration, or his sloppy attempts at dialect.

24- One of the most predictable shows on television. The only things you can’t predict are the things that come flying out of nowhere, which only serves to make it look like a 5 year old is the driving creative force. “So what should happen next Timmy?” “Maybe have a train with a bomb on it crashes into an airplane full of monkeys!”

The War at Home- Fox cancels Arrested Development but lets this tripe continue to be aired? WTF? ACWF and I actually appreciate this show though, because it gives us time to “make the babies” between the Simpsons and Family Guy. Terrible, terrible show.

Survivor- I just never really got into the whole “Reality TV” thing and this is the one that seems to have started them all. I can’t help it that I just don’t give a damn if these people live or die.

Chocolate Ice Cream- Vanilla is better, and you know it. Everybody knows it. You just don’t want to admit it.

Pleated Pants- Stupid fuckin’ pleats. All they do is get in the way when I’m ironing, and they make it look like my hips flare out. Completely retarded.

Victorian English Literature- The whole genre sucks. You suck.

Um. I’m out of rage for now.

This probably explains a lot about me Part 2

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 30, 2006 @ 12:40 pm
in suhmuhmuh bitch
. 10 Comments

Part 1

I’m pretty sure I made it back to Physics, because I remember having my hand in ice on top of one of my lab desk. Then I remember my friend walking me to Trigonometry, which was our next class, when Physics ended. He deposited me against the lockers where two of our friends were waiting for Trig to start and told them that I was pretty out of it. I WAS pretty out of it, I know that.

I stumbled into Trig a few minutes later and the teacher, who was also my pole vaulting coach, asked me what was wrong. I told him that I wasn’t feeling very well. He told me that I could go to the nurse if I wanted to, but I knew it would look fishy if I went to see the nurse again. I took my seat and put my head down. I noticed that I was sweating, and that my sweat had taken on a minty aroma. This triggered a wave of nasuea and bile, which was also unfortunately minty, at the back of my throat .

A few minutes into the lesson I stood up, told the teacher I was going to sleep, and laid down on the floor. I heard him say, “Does anyone know what’s wrong with ACW?” and another friend, Nick, who had been in Physics with me said, “We’re pretty sure he drank a bottle of scope on a bet about an hour ago.”

I prepared myself for the beating of a lifetime. I was in an all-male Catholic high school and it was well within the rights of our teachers and administrators to smack us around if the felt it was necessary. On top of that, my Trig teacher was a brother of the religious order that ran our school, and those brothers were renowned for being especially violent. What? Don’t you think that Jesus beat the ever-loving crap out of the disciples from time to time? How else would they know that he loved them?

“Well, let him sleep then. And let me know if he needs to go to the hospital. I don’t want to clean up anything he might not keep down.”

I slept the sleep of the insane. I was only half-asleep the whole time, and images of Trig kept invading my minty-fresh consciousness. It was like Donald in Mathmagic Land, but none of the numbers made any sense. My head was spinning, and I kept imagining that people were calling the police to get me. I was paranoid, and with every breath I made myself more sick and a little more crazy. Finally class was over and a friend helped me get to the gym. I had one free period left before the end of the day, but we weren’t allowed to sleep anywhere at school, even if we were on a free period. I groggily put on my track uniform and crawled in between the pole-vaulting mats and the mat cover.

It was so warm under there. The mats had been baking in the sun all day, and smelled of warm plastic. For the first time in hours, I smelled something other than mint. I got almost an hour of sleep before I was awakened by a muppet.

As my eyes adjusted to the light I realized that the muppet was just my Trig teacher/track coach, and that he was peering at me under the mat cover so that I could only see his comically large glasses, bulbous nose, and Ron Jeremy-esque mustache.

“Feeling better?”

“Uh, yes sir. I’ll go get my pole.”

“Ever going to drink something with a poison control label on the side of it?”

“No sir.”

“Ever going to sleep in my class again?”

“No sir.”

“Good.”

He ripped the mat cover off of me and made me run laps until I was sober.

I’ve never been so drunk so quickly in all my life. I’ve also never gone so quickly from drunk to hungover, nor have I had such a severe hangover clear up so quickly. I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you’re short on cash, it makes for an interesting few hours.

This just in

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 30, 2006 @ 12:22 pm
in food and work
. 11 Comments

In my office it’s apparently inappropriate to tell a coworker that you’re having a “fat wad of succulent turkey titty” for lunch.

Turkey-breast sandwiches should be refereed to as nothing more than turkey-breast sandwiches. Duly noted.

This probably explains a lot about me

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 30, 2006 @ 9:06 am
in contests, food and money
. 14 Comments

One day in high school during my senior year, I was feeling bored. Well, I wasn’t so much “feeling” bored as actually being bored. (And by the way, “bored” feels like a hefty bag full of diapers and Cheez-Whiz.) It was lunchtime, and I had already consumed my lunch, so I went to bother some of the other students near me. Typically this meant turning around and harassing Mokie and his friends because they had the same lunch time as I did, and they were dreadfully stubborn enough to continue to sit behind me every day.

Unfortunately, on this day another student had already started bothering them, so I started bothering him. He was trying to get Mokie or his friends to drink a 6oz bottle of Scope for something on the order of 50 cents. Of course, everyone was turning him down.

I told him that I would do it for 10 dollars.

He didn’t have ten bucks, but after walking around the cafeteria for about 15 minutes, he managed to scrounge seven dollars in change and the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever on CD. I took the loot, swigged the mouthwash, and waited for something to happen.

I didn’t feel anything. The kid kept trying to get his money back, but everyone agreed that I had earned it fair and square. I was especially proud of the fact that my belches had become quite refreshing with a strong tone of mint. I was relating my victory to a friend a few minutes later when I was leaving lunch and we were on our way to Physics. The hallway suddenly tilted drastically to the left, and I was leaning up against the wall and sliding on my shoulder to class. This was particularly funny to me.

Upon arriving in class word quickly spread that I was somehow intoxicated, and students kept stealing glances at me while waiting for our teacher to arrive. After trying to decipher the blurry, dancing directions on the side of the bottle about what one should do if they ingest too much of the product, I decided it would be a good idea to turn off the ceiling fans. Using the cord was out of the question. Any idiot could do it that way. I decided to use my bare hands to grab one of the fan blades and stop it that way.

I jumped into the air, caught the fan blade in mid rotation, and stopped it cold before deftly landing on my feet like a cat.

That’s what I thought would happen, anyway. What really happened was that I jumped into the air and stuck my hand into the spinning fan *THUNK* promptly bruising my palm and the heel of my hand. The insane speed of the fan also helped knock me off balance, and I stumbled backward until my butt hit one of the lab tables which I slid off of into a chair. I stood up, shakily, and went back to my seat to recover. A few moments later the teacher came in and started the lesson, the fan still swinging off balance in the back of the classroom. I immediately raised my hand and asked to go to the nurse, slurring every word in the sentence. The teacher asked why, and I told him that I had hurt my hand. My friend then interrupted from the back of the room and said that I had drunk some Scope at lunch, and subsequently stuck my hand in the fan. My teacher sighed, shook his head, and then waved me out of the room.

I don’t really remember much after that.

Part 2 in a little bit.

Ain’t that a kick in the pants

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 27, 2006 @ 1:27 pm
in Mrs. ACW and food
. 12 Comments

For Christmas, I mean, Secular Anti-Jesus Claus Humping Holiday, ACWF and I offered to take my parents out to eat. We don’t get to see them as much as we would like to, and they don’t really need any more “stuff” so we thought time spent with them at a restaurant with the tab on us would be a good present.

In fact, it turns out that it was a great present, because both my mom and dad were really excited about us taking them out to dinner tonight. We had the perfect place picked out. It’s an independent, non-chain steakhouse about 20 minutes from our house, and the last time we ate there the food was great.

You may wonder why I don’t just say the name of the steakhouse. It may be because I don’t want you to stalk us, or it may be because it doesn’t matter because the stupid place went out of business.

So now I have to think of another independent, non-chain steak house near Glen Burnie or Annapolis, or the drool running down my dad’s chin in anticipation for steak will change from hunger drool, to hate-rage drool. And then he’ll eat me.

No lie. I used to have 3 brothers. Now I only have two brothers and whenever we bring it up my mom looks at us like we’re crazy and my dad laughs and says he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. Then when he thinks we’ve gone out of earshot he rubs his belly and makes sucking sounds with his teeth, as if recalling a succulent morsel from a meal long since digested.

So, can anyone help me out with the name of a cool place that serves steak for reasonable prices in the Annapolis/Glen Burnie areas so I don’t spend the next 3 years lodged in my dad’s colon? Thanks.

No time for love Dr. Jones

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 27, 2006 @ 9:15 am
in meta blogging and sex
. 20 Comments

Last night I got my 50kth hit via Sitemeter.

I’d like to thank that person, because I know they are smart, hilarious, and probably very well-endowed. I’d like to think that person is probably one of the best human beings any of you people would ever have the pleasure of meeting. That person is almost assuredly dynamite in the sack, and you should bed that person if you ever get the chance. You should also buy that person drinks whenever you are around them.

“But ACW,” you question politely, “how would we ever know who that person is?”

Well, there are two ways that you could know. 1) You could check my Sitemeter stats, find the 50k hit, and then look up the IP address with ARIN. 2) You could take my word for it, because I was my own 50k hit.

I was checking my email last night and decided to shoot over to the blog to see if any new comments had popped up since I had left work. Then, on a whim, I went to Sitemeter to check out how things were going. You can imagine my surprise to see that the 50k was myself. You can probably also imagine my subsequent weirded-outtedness.

Being your own 50k hit is like finding out that you’re your own grandfather. What seems like innocent time-travelling bump-n-grind turns out to be a doubly-incestuous, sin-filled, monkey-lovin’ taboo. Eww. Now I feel dirty again.

Shit- Updated

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 26, 2006 @ 12:39 pm
in suhmuhmuh bitch
. 13 Comments

I think I just took a double dose of psuedoephedrine. I looked at the blister pack and it looked like I hadn’t taken any, so I popped out two and took them. Then I noticed that all the pills were gone.

Am I going to die?

Update: I am not dead. However, each breath is like an artic wind travelling from my nostrils down my throat. I’m about to take a Vagisil in an attempt to restore some of my natural “wetness”.

A glimpse into the home of ACW

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 26, 2006 @ 8:20 am
in Mrs. ACW, games, meta blogging and sex
. 24 Comments

Her: There’s nothing on TV.

Me: Why don’t you just watch a CSI rerun?

Her: Fine…. oh. Man, I’ve seen this one like nine times.

Me: Well then it works in your favor.

Her: What does?

Me: The CSI bingo.

Her: What are you talking about?

Me: CSI bingo. I pick contusion.

Her: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: If somebody says contusion during CSI, I get a prize. Let’s say, a handjob.

Her: No way, I’m not playing.

Me: Oh, come on! You watch this crappy show all the time. You’re bound to win!

Her: I’m not playing.

Me: Fine, I’ll play for you. If someone says pericardium you get a foot massage.

Her: (sings) I’m not playing.

I go back to ironing and halfheartedly watching CSI and she goes back to reading and halfheartedly watching CSI.

Coroner: blah blah blah blah pericardium.

Me: Did you hear that? You just won CSI bingo!

Her: (sigh) I’m going to bed.

Me: What!? How can you go to bed? The show is just getting exciting!

Her: Whatever. You’re a big nerd.

Me: I’m going to tell the internet about this, and I’m going to make it look like I’m awesome and you’re a jerk.

Her: Whatever. You’re a nerd, and you need help. (walks upstairs)

Me: That’s going on the internet! People will know of your jerkdom!

Happy Hour Recap

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 25, 2006 @ 8:53 am
in happy hour and uncategorized
. 9 Comments

I wasn’t going to do a recap of the happy hour because I was only there for about two-and-a-half hours, and I left before probably many people showed up. I’ll give you the highlights.

Frank was feeling generous so he bought all of my drinks last night. I owe you one water buddy. Thanks!

j-e-s-s-i-c-a and I talked about Scotland and Amy Sedaris’ boobs.

Bryan was there for his first happy hour, and it was a pleasure to meet him. I just didn’t realize that the boating accident that he frequently refers to on his blog would have left such a large and disfiguring scar. It’s amazing the guy can even see.

BJB was duh-runk. Among the things I learned about BJB: she was accepted to Brown, got a 1400 on her SAT, and at least one of her female friends has bitten her boob. Yeah. That’s right.

It took me about half an hour to leave because of a mix-up with the bills. At first I was given someone else’s credit card. Then when I got my own bill with the proper credit card the bill had two drinks on it, when all I got was dinner. (They were Broadsheet’s drinks, and if I had known that I would have paid for them, but by the time I had figured that out the bartender had brought me a new bill.) From what I understand, the previous bartender had closed out everyone’s tabs to transfer them to the new bartender, and apparently gave less than two shits about which customer was charged for which orders, leaving the bartender that I dealt with to sort it all out. Bad form first bartender. Bad form. I tipped the second bartender extra for her trouble.

I was pulling out of my parking spot, putting my seatbelt on, and making my way down the street when I saw Cara and textureslut. Had I been paying slightly less attention, I may have spent last night trying to get blood off of the hood of my car. By the way, Cara, did you change your hair? I didn’t recognize you until I saw your face.

Anyway, after that I went home and watched Mythbusters. Welcome to my exciting life.

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