Archive for March, 2006

Kitty porn

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 15, 2006 @ 8:50 am
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat, jesus is fo' shizzle and potty humor
. 31 Comments

Well, we’ve had the new cat for about a week now, and things seem to be getting a little bit better. Sherlock has stopped his hissing and growling, and the new cat (Kitten, as we’ve taken to calling her) has stopped chopping off horse heads and putting them next to Sherlock while he sleeps. I thought it was weird too, but ACWF assured me it was normal feline behavior. I took her word for it, and then we went out to dinner with her huge Sicilian family.

Right now Sherlock and the Kitten have been sort of feeling out the house together. When Sherlock gets bored of following the Kitten around with his nose stuck up her butt (I always knew he was into coprophagia), he usually lets her wander without batting a single poop-encrusted whisker.

sherlock kitten

We’ve been trying to play with Sherlock all the more recently, so he doesn’t feel like he’s being replaced, but he hasn’t really been into it. He still chases jingle balls like a crackhead chases a dollar-bill caught in an updraft, but I can tell that his heart isn’t in it. Meanwhile, the Kitten has taken to setting up her “cathouse” in our living room. But not like you’re thinking, pervert. I meant a stable of whores with whom men can have sex for varying amounts of money.

kitten dainty

So far the funniest thing has been when Sherlock sees the Kitten doing something he normally does. Like when the Kitten is laying on the steps and staring at the wall for no reason, or when the Kitten decides to fling poop out of the litterbox and onto the floor. Sherlock looks at her quizzically with is head tilted to the side as if to say, “Hey! I like sitting in the window and mentally devouring every squirrel, bird, and Jehovah Witness that I see too!”

kitten stand

So I hope they start getting along soon, because I could really use the money I know I’ll make from taking pictures of them posing with one another in Anne Geddes-type baby-cherub costumes in front of Thomas Kinkade backgrounds and then selling them on QVC for 9 easy payments of $75.95. You know those retards will pretty much buy anything if it’s got an angel or the lobotomized stylings of of that douchebag Kinkade.

Wherin I postulate and expound on topics without realistically contributing

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 14, 2006 @ 8:57 am
in beer, nerd stuff and word nerd
. 21 Comments

I’m applying to graduate school, and while I was writing my admissions essay, I realized I was ready to get back in to the academic saddle, as it were. See, while I was writing the essay, it became more and more loquacious and verbose, and I started using words like “loquacious” and “verbose”. It finally culminated* in the paragraph that I’m presenting below. I’m not proud of it, but for some reason instructors eat this shit up:

I was recently shocked to learn that our Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, does not use email, and this caused me to consider our country’s current situation concerning age and technology. As baby-boomers gradually grow older and leave the workforce, I imagine they will be replaced by younger counterparts. Traditionally, these younger counterparts have been more familiar with information technology as they have been raised with this technology since before their first steps. As such, we may see an increased reliance on the distribution of information through technologically advanced means. If something is not done to ensure that as a large generation of Americans age they are also given the skills to stay informed with younger generations, we may end up with a communicative divide between generations.

I say in five sentences what I could have easily said in one, minus the Rumsfeld reference. Why do teachers dig on this crap? And why does it give me such perverse pleasure when I manage to spin a thought like, “I like beer” into a sentence like, “Through a careful inspection of sociocultural mores, paying special attention and regard to the frequently complicated and rarely-understood nature of the American-male experiencing a quarter-life crisis, it can be carefully and clearly observed that the practice, or ritual, as some might say, of imbibing alcoholic beverages with peers, has become the steps of Socratic thought for the 21st century, and even though one of the more benevolent side-effects of alcohol is loss of reason, dozens of ideas, schemes, and inventions are drunkenly happened upon in the period of a typical evening, assuming, of course, that this subject is financially stable enough to afford such luxuries as intoxication, and has the wherewithal aforethought to plan a safe way back to his home.”

See!? What the hell is that!? It doesn’t even mean anything! “Wherewithal aforethought”? Who the fuck says that?

I guess, though, it’s not technically my fault. I got hooked on the junk during my first semester of undergrad in an American Studies course. We were coming to the end of the semester, and damned if I could tell you a single thing about what we had been studying for the past 3 months. I hadn’t read any of the texts, and I was pretty sure that the instructor knew it. Lucky for me, there was no exam, and only a final paper. My paper? A 5-page bullshit fest on how Seinfeld was a post-modern art-form while simultaneously existing within a pre-modern and modern context. You can smell the bullshit already, can’t you?

I went on for page after page using words like erudite, fastidiousness, enclave, and salubrious. I made vague and wide-reaching allusions to Irish immigration in the 18th century, Central Pacific’s Chinese laborers in the 1860s, and more than one allusion to the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Throw in a meandering screed against most TV families between the years of 1950 and 1990, and top that off with “references” to Seinfeld in the form of quotes like, “master of my domain” and “man-hands” you’ve essentially got my paper.

My hands trembled as she handed the paper back to me on the last day of class. I flipped to the last page and saw, in terrifying red ink, an “A”… with a minus after it. Below my grade she had written a note:

“ACW, I really enjoyed reading your paper. You clearly have a strong understanding of the concepts taught in class, and I appreciate your courage to delve into a subject on which we did not study- the modern sitcom. However,” and this is where I expect she’s going to call me a fraud and tell me my real grade is an “F”, “I would have liked to see more from you about the topic. It seems like you rushed yourself. Keep up the great work.”

And after that I was ruined. I peddled my bullshit for another 4 years, and by the time I was done, I could write for pages and pages and never say anything. I’m sure you’ve noticed.

*See, I did it again! “Culminated”? Wtf?

Three is a magic number

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 13, 2006 @ 11:41 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer, devil cat, food, nerd stuff and potty humor
. 22 Comments

1) This weekend ACWF and I went to a wine tasting. They had the wines separated by type (sweet white, spicy red, etc.) and with each table they had picked a cheese to be paired with the wine. At one table they had picked Red Hawk cheese. Red Hawk, though delicious, is one of the most offensive smelling cheeses I have ever had the pleasure of eating. Imagine you’re locked in your car, with the windows up, with someone who drank a case of beer the previous night, and consumed a bowl of cheetos, refried beans, and jerky in a moment of drunken munchies. Now imagine that their guts are attempting to process this gastro-intestinal nightmare and releasing it within the confines of the car, steaming up the windows, and creating a palpable funk. That’s what Red Hawk smells like. So by the end of the night, people were walking into the room with the Red Hawk, and they’d immediately look around to see who had dealt the dirty booty-blaster.

2) Later that evening we went to the Science Center in Baltimore to take a free tour of the observatory. We got a chance to see Saturn, the Orion Nebula, and even the moon. ACWF was a little drunk when we got there, as we had just left the wine tasting, so she was kind of acting like a goofball. For example, we parked at a meter that had an hour and a half on it already, but she threw in two more quarters and gave us four hours of parking time. Even though the observatory was closing in an hour. Anyway, we’re inside the observatory, and ACWF asks if she can move the dome above the telescope so we can look at different parts of the sky. The observatory man agrees, hands ACWF the controls, she pushes the button, and nothing happens. Because I’m a nice guy, I immediately started making fun of ACWF for breaking the observatory dome, and ACWF began to freak out a little bit and ask how much it would cost to fix. The observatory man, overhearing my teasing, told her that if she had her checkbook she could just make it out to the Science Center for a million dollars. I think she may have believed him for a moment. Even if she didn’t, there was a brick on the floor beneath her where there was no brick before.

3) The new cat still doesn’t get along with Sherlock. The hissing and growling has subsided, but Sherlock’s a big dumb-dumb and it’s not helping anything. I like to tell people that Sherlock is smart, because he knows some tricks, but I think he might have the memory of that guy from Memento. For example, here’s what I imagine the little furball is thinking about on a regular basis these days:

“Okay. Today I think I’m going to eat, and sleep, and maybe poop. I’ll watch the birds and squirrels, then sleep, and… HEY! That’s another cat! I’m going to run over to it as fast as I can and see if it wants to play!”

“Growl.”

“Hmm. That cat doesn’t seem to want to play. I’ll just walk over here to my toy and see if I can… Hey! A cat! Maybe it wants to play! I’ll run over to it at top speed and check!”

“Growl.”

“Nuts. I guess I’ll just walk over to this sunny spot and take a nap. Hey!…”

And so on until eternity. If he ever figures out that there’s another cat in the house permanently, we might just be able to keep the second one. Otherwise, we might have to sell her to a Chinese restaurant.

I’m just kidding. We’d never sell the cat to a Chinese restaurant.

We’d sell her to a Mexican restaurant.

Poker? I don’t even know her!

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 10, 2006 @ 11:26 am
in games, money and travel
. 13 Comments

Last night I played Texas Hold’em for the first time. Well, that’s not entirely true. I played once before online at my buddy Matt’s house, and without really knowing what I was doing, and with a few lucky checks, bets, and folds, I somehow managed to beat everyone else at the virtual table. But, it wasn’t like I had any idea of what was going on, and it was probably very much like teenagers boning. Neither one of them has any idea what to do with the other’s equipment, but damned if they don’t get pregnant anyway. I guess comparing pregnancy to taking all the chips at poker is probably a poor analogy. I was more referring to the sweaty fumbling and impulsive nature of the act as opposed the byproduct of chips or crotch-fruit.

And actually, I played before one other time, but we weren’t playing for money, so I kept going “all in” on every hand. I think it was pretty annoying to the other players, but I figured that I had nothing to lose, so why not bet big? Last night was the first time I had played for money, and it was weird, because I’m not really the gambling type. It’s pretty funny, because I was also playing with Mokie and my dad, and apparently the gambling gene isn’t from my dad’s side, because he was pretty disinterested, as was Mokie. We’d make quite the trio in Vegas, I’m sure.

Mokie: Um, I guess we should play the slots since we’re here.
Dad: I’m not wasting my money on that crap.
ACW: Ooh! Let’s go see Penn and Teller.
Mokie: Yeah, that sounds cool.
Dad: I’m not wasting my money on that crap.

Come to think of it, my dad would probably never even go to Vegas, as his favorite thing to do for vacation is fall asleep on the beach, and why fly to Vegas when he could drive to the beach here?

But I digress. My grandfather (my mom’s dad) was having a grand old time, and he’s half the reason my uncle started up a poker night, so we played for his benefit. My grandfather’s best friend passed away recently, and since then he’s had a tough go at finding ways to spend his time. The poker night is partly for him to have something to do and look forward too, and partly to play some poker. So we played some motherfuckin’ poker motherfuckers.

Without getting into the jargon too much, I’ll just let you know that there were a few kicker flops on the full-house river that upset the boondle, and a flim-flam tarpaper bonnet on a scundling brish. It was pretty exciting. Mr. K and Hof can explain what all those terms mean.

I was drawing cold cards all night (how cold? Well, let’s just say that my nipples could have cut glass.) but I somehow managed to be one of the last three players out of eight through a cunning use of not knowing what the hell I was doing.

My grandfather, on the other hand, was slowly ensconcing himself behind a pile of chips that grew ever higher, at one point teetering so precariously that it looked like a whimsical character of Dr. Suess’ creation had a horrible gambling problem.

My grandfather took the pot at the end of the night, and while I was driving him home he mentioned that he was happy to have won for the second week in a row, but he was also a little embarrassed to have taken everyone’s money twice, yet at no point did the stingy, crotchety, old bastard offer to give me gas money out of his winnings. What a douchebag.

The day I had two pussies at the same time

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 9, 2006 @ 9:59 am
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat and sex
. 22 Comments

I found a kitten. Actually, to be completely honest, the kitten found me. As the microwave was being replaced on Tuesday, the kitten was sitting on our front porch. I let the kitten in for a minute while I got her some food and water. A few hours later it looked like the kitten didn’t feel like leaving, so we introduced the kitten to Sherlock, and the fur flew.

For about three hours Sherlock and the kitten growled, hissed, and spit at each other, though by the end of it, Sherlock kept wandering away, and the kitten was sleeping with an occasional growl. Finally, the kitten made a move like she wanted to go outside, so we opened the door to let her out, left her more food, and figured she would do her own thing. She hung around for a while eating the food, but then disappeared.

I’m conflicted about the whole experience. At best, we provided a stray cat with some food and shelter, if only for a short period of time. At worst we kidnapped someone’s pet and terrorized that pet with our own cat for three hours.

I was kind of hoping that I’d never see the kitten again after that night, because that would mean that the kitten probably had a home. Unfortunately, the kitten showed up again this morning, and while Sherlock was trying to create the mental energy to physically pass through the glass in the window and transport himself directly on top of the kitten outside, I got more food and water for her, and put it on the porch.

I can’t help but feed the poor thing, but I don’t exactly want to have to deal with the two cats not getting along, and I don’t want to have one indoor-only cat and one inside/outside cat. I know every time I feed it I’m creating a bond between the kitten and our house, but I feel bad when the kitten keeps following me around, and responds to “Get out of here you stupid cat” with nuzzling against my leg.

I guess we’ll see what happens this afternoon.

And now, so I can maintain my perverse “street cred” with eebmore, I present you with more ultra-perverse sexual knowledge.

Vorarephilia: is the interest/sexual fetish in which a person fantasizes about eating another person and/or creature, being eaten him/herself, and/or watching another be eaten. Preferences vary, but most prefer to fantasize about being devoured whole and alive (soft vore), as opposed to those who prefer to be torn, chewed, and killed (hard vore). Those who prefer hard vore are sometimes referred to as “shreddies”. Both types of vore are most commonly found portrayed in stories or cartoonish drawings and acted out in internet role-playing. One infamous vore would be Armin Meiwes.

Get it? Because it’s a condom, and condoms are called rubbers, and a check that bounces is a rubber check. It’s hilarious.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 7, 2006 @ 11:35 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer, music, potty humor and sex
. 13 Comments

The other night ACWF and our friend Matt went exploring the dive bars in our area, in an attempt to get a better idea of where the local yokels get their party on.

The first few places we visited were no disappointment. In one place I got to watch a guy covered in prison tattoos make out with his spherical girlfriend with 9-inch-high, bleached-blond bangs. It was really horrible, because they weren’t just playing tonsil hockey. Oh no, there was some face-licking and finger-sucking going on too.

This was at the second nicest place.

The second place we visited was a tiny pool hall. So we walked up to an even tinier bar ordered some drinks, and took in the poorly-lighted, smoke-filled atmosphere until a guy named Chuck introduced himself. Chuck told ACWF, “I think I’m losing my mind,” before leaning over to me, putting his nose in my ear and saying, “I’ve been known to go crazy from time to time.” So I told him that it happens to the best of us, and tried to pretend that I didn’t have the heebie-jeebies. ACWF wasn’t so lucky, as apparently Chuck was gently stroking her arm and back with one of his fingers. That is, when he wasn’t trying to play with her hair. I didn’t find out about that until later, after we all moved to a video game machine to play Naked Photo Hunt, and get away from Chuck.

The nicest place we went to was a bar connected to a liquor store near ACWF’s parent’s house. It was also smoky, and also poorly lit, but the bartender was very friendly, and it wasn’t crowded, and the regulars seemed to like our taste in music judging by how they would dance whenever our jukebox selections came up. However, this place was still a dive.

The men’s bathroom smelled of urine. No, urine squared. No, it was even worse than that. It stunk of urine to the urine power. (urine^urine for all you math/computer nerds out there.) Actually, now that I think about it, here’s the equation, where X equals how revolted I was by the smell:

2x(urine^urine) + (poop filled toilet)^urine = bathroom

And I’m not sure how to add it into the equation, but there were a few other things that made this bathroom quite skeevy. 1) There was a shower curtain that went from ceiling to floor in the place of where a stall door should have been. 2) One of the urinals was so old, and apparently so filthy, that in places the porcelain had been eaten away. 3) There were machines in the bathroom that dispensed a) pornographic novelties, b) French-tickler (Freedom tickler?) condoms, c) Rough-Rider* condoms.

So, of course, I bought one of the pornographic novelties for 50 cents, and out popped this.

Be sure to take in all the hilarious puns. “Assits”! That’s so clever! But why are there two different types of stars/asterisks? And why isn’t that fellow’s left arm colored in? Oh well, 50 cents and you pay for what you get- a graphic designer trained by the finest mail-order GED company in three counties.

Here’s the back. Oh look, it’s an hilarious “Sperm Bank” joke. I know I NEVER see those coming when money and penes are involved. But what about the text below that? “This product is sold strictly as a novelty, and not sold for the prevention of disease.” What about the prevention of pregnancy?! Unless you consider pregnancy a disease. Which I do. What would you call an organism that does nothing but soil itself and try to self-destruct?

And just to be sure that some dumb hillbilly can’t use it as a real condom, they went ahead and cut the tip off. On the one hand, this makes sense. Any reasonable person will see that the tip is gone and think, “This condom has been rendered ineffective. I have nothing left to do but show my partner and tell them to perform oral sex instead.” However, I have a feeling that the type of person that would frequent this bar may not be so savvy, and instead think, “That hole at the end must be for air-ee-die-nam-iks for mah peener. C’mon Bessie! I got a rubber, and there ain’t no chance I can catch your mad-cow disease this time!”

However, the funniest part of the condom is the joke “check” printed on the side of it, but not for reasons that I think were intended. You get the sperm bank joke again, which proves that it’s SO funny it can be used twice on the same product. But that part that really made me laugh was were it said “DRIPPLES”. What the hell?! Dripples? What the hell is a dripple? I can only assume it’s something on the order of a drip and a dribble, but why would “Dripples” be a reasonable “joke” replacement for “dollars”. Like you can pay someone in dripples!

And can you imagine some old guy unrolling this condom and handing it to someone else and saying “He he he! Here’s my rubber check! Haw haw haw! Try to cash this!” and all the while the person he’s handing it to is seeing the word “dripples” and can’t help but think of the old man’s wrinkly penis slowly leaking “dripples” of seminal fluid?

Yeah, didn’t think you’d be having that mental picture today, did you? Actually, yeah, neither did I, but at least YOU don’t have to deal with the fact that the image came out of YOUR brain. I’m going to go perform a lobotomy with a letter-opener and three-hole-punch right now.

*No, not DMX and DJ Clue. Just condoms with hard rubber bumps all over them. I imagine it would be like fucking somebody with horrible penis warts. Sexy.

Dear Hollywood,

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 6, 2006 @ 9:06 am
in bitches, jesus is fo' shizzle, movies, music and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 27 Comments

First of all, thank you. Jon Stewart was great. If there was a man that I would hump to death purely for sport, it would be Jon Stewart, every time, no matter what the restraining order says. Second of all, thanks for keeping it short. I can only drink so many 1.5 liter bottles of wine before I start getting stabby and drunkenly weaving ACWF to the hospital for minor lacerations… again. Keeping it to just about 3 hours keeps me to about 750 ml of wine, and ACWF stab-wound free. Who says Hollywood isn’t looking out for the ladies?

But, seriously Hollywood. The Three 6 Mafia? Are you retarded? I understand that you’re all about “blackness” since you deigned to give Halle Berry and Jamie Foxx the first ever Best Actress and Best Actor awards respectively, but really, don’t try to play like you’re all about the hip-hop culture when it’s clear that you don’t know shit. You got your voting forms in the mail, you listened to the samples, you thought to yourself, “Well, this new jungle music sure is wiggedy-fly!” and then you voted for it because you’re an idiot.

Are you really trying to tell us that the uninspired, trite, repetitive, manufactured bullshit that you and the Three 6 Mafia passed off as original “music” can really qualify for a freakin’ OSCAR for Best Original Song? I don’t think they would have earned a Grammy for this song, and just about everybody has a Grammy. Hell, I have seven of them. Were you trying to be sarcastic? Maybe you were going for “Alanis” ironic and no one got it. Either way, as farcical as this award ceremony has become, not to mention how commercial (these Oscars brought to you by an orgiastic bevy of products that claim to make you hotter, thinner, and cooler), even the Three 6 Mafia were far beyond respectable levels of satire.

If you were shooting for satire, I think you’ve reached a level of satire where this award would be the same as Johnathan Swift doing a reading of A Modest Proposal while eating a LIVE IRISH BABY. You overshot your mark, Oscars, and you did it with the most volatile force of nature… hip-hop.

Have you any idea of what you’ve done? No, no, of course not. Well, let me tell you. Right now, all across the country, black youths are ignoring the Oscars. Why? Because it’s irrelevant to them. In 78 years you’ve allowed two [glancing in either direction as well as over my shoulder before whispering] Negroes [looking around nervously] to win some very special awards, so I hope you can see why they wouldn’t really be interested in your vast ocean of honkies.

At the same time, idiotic white children are logging on to iTunes RIGHT NOW and downloading Three 6 Mafia songs AT RANDOM! They don’t care if they get Gee Whiz It’s Difficult to Collect My Earnings as a Pimp, or I Krunked up My Jiggy-Cup Now Suckle On My Dingle-Dangle, or Hoes Can Be Like Niggas*, or Slob on my Knob (part II)*. TRL will be playing Three 6 Mafia within the week, and by this summer Three 6 Mafia will have a contract to write the next 2,000 jingles you see on TV or hear on the radio. Is that what you were really after white, Oscar-watching America? I don’t think so, or else you wouldn’t have been such bitches about Brokeback Mountain. Just let the fellas hump for chrissakes. Jesus doesn’t care. To be honest, he wishes you would stop bitching about a movie you haven’t even seen.

In conclusion, you stupid cracker-ass crackers, you did this to yourselves. You’ve had dozens of chances to profile some real, positive hip-hop throughout the years, but instead you chose the Three 6 Mafia. You chose a band who wrote a song titled Lick My (sic) Nutts*. Shame on you. I can’t wait for your own pale, jersey-attired, Fubu-wearing, cracker-ass, trailer-trash children to beat you to death. I hate you.

*Real titles of Three 6 Mafia songs. This is so depressing.

This is why the other department stores keep giving you swirlies

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 3, 2006 @ 11:27 am
in bitches and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 20 Comments

ACWF and I have been living in the Stone Age for the past few weeks. Our microwave stopped working sometime around the beginning of February and to ACWF, a person who doesn’t believe that it’s food if you don’t microwave it for at least a few seconds first, this has been quite a serious disruption in lifestyle. She asked me not to tell anyone, so let’s keep it between you and me, internet, but she even microwaves ice to make water. She says microwaved water ice tastes better than water from the tap. She probably has an irradiated urethra because of this quirk, but you can now see why she would mourn the loss of a microwave like many people would mourn the loss of a close family member, or the loss of an especially kinky porno tape.

As soon as the microwave went tits up I called our insurance company. They sent a guy out to fix it, he said the busted part would cost 300 beans and that the insurance company would cover the cost. The insurance company called a few days later and let me know that they’d rather get us a new microwave than shell out the money for the part. That was fine with me so I told them to go right ahead.

Then I heard nothing from the insurance company for 2 weeks. So I called the insurance company and they said that they had placed the order for the microwave through Sears and that Sears would deliver the microwave to my house, and I would have to call the repair guy to install it so it would all still be covered by the insurance. I asked the insurance lady if she knew when the microwave would be delivered, and if not, if she had a number for the contact at Sears. She didn’t know the delivery date, but I didn’t expect her to, because it wasn’t her job. She also didn’t have a contact number, but apparently that’s because they fill huge batch requests with a dedicated website. The best she could give me was the branch name in Sears that handled the batch insurance requests. Sears Commercial.

So I Googled Sears Commercial and finally found a phone number, called them, and this is a close interpretation of the call that followed:

Hi, this is Sears, can I have your phone number please?

Um, it’s 410 555 1234

Okay, I don’t see a listing by that number, can you give me another number?

Well, this was an insurance claim, so the numbers are all probably tied to the insurance company, but since the microwave has to be delivered to my house, can’t you just look up my address?

Okay, what’s the name of the insurance company?

First American Homebuyers.

Okay, I see a bunch of listings for that company, can you tell me the address?

My address, or the address for the company?

The company address please.

Look, I’m not with the company, they’re just handling my insurance claim. Can’t you look up this order by my home address? It seems like since the microwave has to be delivered to me, and since the home insurance company insures my house, my address should be an important piece of information.

Okay, can I have your address?

Yes! It’s 123 Fake Street, Glen Burnie, MD.

Yes, I see it right here, we’re delivering you a microwave tomorrow between 2 and 3.

Tomorrow!? I guess no one needs to be home to sign for the delivery then?

Oh, no sir! Someone ABSOLUTELY has to be home to accept the delivery.

So, we rescheduled the delivery day for today, March 3, and I made sure that they now had my name and phone number in the system. A few days later I realized that I wasn’t given a delivery time, so I called back:

Well, we don’t know the delivery time yet. You’ll get a call before the delivery date letting you know what the delivery time will be.

Okay, do you know when they’ll call me?

They usually call one day before delivery.

One day!? So you have no way of knowing when it would be delivered?

Well, we only make deliveries between 7am and 8pm, so it would be during that time.

So, I resigned myself to being completely uninformed, and waited for the call from Sears. In the meantime, I arranged for Mokie to come over and accept the delivery since he has Fridays off anyway. He said that would be fine, and I told him I’d let him know the delivery window as soon as I knew what it was.

This past Wednesday I got a call from Sears:

Hi, I was just calling with regard to the delivery scheduled for Friday.

Okay, great! Do you know what the delivery time will be?

No, you’ll get an automated call with that information tomorrow.

Ooookaaayy…. so, what can I do for you?

Well, I just wanted to confirm the delivery information.

Seriously. That was the call. I couldn’t believe it. They were double-checking to make sure the address information that they had already been given twice, and now had three times, was correct. I’d spent more time on the phone with these skin-wasting oxygen-hoggers than I’d even like to recollect, and almost every call had amounted to a zero percent satisfaction level with me.

And then Thursday came and went with nary a peep from Sears until SEVEN MOTHERFUCKING THIRTY THIS MORNING WHEN THEY CALLED TO LET ME KNOW THAT THEY WERE TRYING TO DELIVER THE FUCKING MICROWAVE BUT I WASN’T ANSWERING THE FUCKING DOOR BECAUSE I WAS IN THE FUCKING SHOWER.

So I called the delivery guy back when I noticed I had missed a call, and he said he’d turn around and come back and deliver the microwave. He was back a few minutes later, was extremely friendly, and was in and out in under a minute. His efficiency leads me to believe that he had nothing to do with SCUMSHIT DONKEYFUCKING RETARDS who are left in charge of scheduling.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s a terribly difficult job to take the same information three times and do absolutely nothing with it, I just think they might have more satisfied customers by employing a radical and difficult system of taking information from customers, putting that information into the system, scheduling a delivery date, and calling the customer to make them aware of that delivery date. I realize that it might take decades to develop the type of technology that can store information, retrieve information, and generate work orders based on that information, and until that time, we’ll be stuck with having to use computers, or at the very least, a FUCKING KITTY-CAT CALENDAR AND GODDAMNED TELEPHONE.

So, Sears, fuck you. Fuck you, and fuck your call center, and fuck your retarded employees, and fuck your fucking stores. You fucking suck. I hate you, and if I ever see you around my neighborhood, I will not hesitate to break all the glassware in my house because I will take such joy in fact that I will soon be stuffing every single shard of it directly into your rectum.

The Adventures of Dr. McNinja

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on March 2, 2006 @ 2:11 pm
in jokes and nerd stuff
. 8 Comments

I don’t know if you read The Adventures of Dr. McNinja or not. But if you don’t you’re missing out on some seriously funny crap.

You can read it tomorrow at work while you’ve got nothing else to do.

I wrote a commercial

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on March 2, 2006 @ 11:48 am
in food, jokes, travel and word nerd
. 8 Comments

Oi! We’re the Spice Girls, and we ‘aven’t ‘ad no work in years! We don’ fink it’s fair for all the ovva groups to be gettin’ sumfin’ for nuffink, so we’s started sellin’ our own brand of spices!

Intraducin’ Spice World spices!

spice world garlicclick for detail

We only got garlic right at da moment, but garlic’s good, innit? If ya pop a jobby o’ this pratter on your terrly taper you’ll be havin’ a willy-banger with the shaperscapes in two nibblenappers. Now, we’s off to naff a lift in the loo before we avta kip the blower and get chuffed wit da nang.

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