Archive for May, 2006

You should really call that number

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 31, 2006 @ 10:04 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, necrophilia, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 12 Comments

Last night ACWF and I went to Bally’s. ACWF has a membership there, and I don’t, but you can bring in guests for free at any time. I’m not sure how that works as a business model, but it’s okay because those Bally fuckers will trick you into signing contract without hesitation. It’s why ACWF has a membership there in the first place. She thought she was getting 3 months free, but it was 3 months free with a three year contract. You can bet that the asshole that sold her the membership was explicitly clear about the 3 months being free, and intentionally evasive about those next three years. Fuckers.

Anyway, because I knew of their small-print sleaze-fuckery I read the “waiver” they gave to all guests to sign. First they wanted my name, address and contact info. So they got my name, a modified version of my address, and no email or phone number. Then I started reading the small print.
“We are not responsible for your injury or death while using these machines…”
“You should consult a doctor before starting any exercise program….”
“If for some reason you die while in our facility we call dibs on the cash in your wallet, girlfriend, and fillings, we’ll probably hump your corpse, and just because we’re shitty people we’ll send a video of said corpse-humping to your grieving family. Then we’ll make a secret video of your family crying while watching the corpse-humping video, and we’ll crank one out to that…”
You know, all the standard stuff.

Then I got to the part where it said, “By giving us your phone number you are giving us express permission to contact you regarding a membership at Bally’s.”

“Oh, yes, please, Mr. Dumb, musclebound gym-rat, please harangue me about a shitty, overpriced gym membership; I can envision nothing finer! While you’re talking, would you mind if I excavated my orifices with a cheese-grater and bathed in lime-juice? Exquisite!”

So I handed the form back to the guy and he tells me that he needs my phone number. I told him that I didn’t want to give him my phone number because I didn’t want to be called about a membership. Then he cops this attitude and tells me that “this is a private club” and that he can’t let me in without a phone number. Like Bally’s is some sort of resort or something, and not currently filled with anal-spelunkling, raisin-testicled, roid-ragers. So I tell him, “Fine,” take the form back and write 410-936-1212 and hand it back to him.

Somehow, magically, this allows me access to the gym. I would love to hear that sales pitch though.

Can a company “jump the shark”?

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 30, 2006 @ 9:27 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, money and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 16 Comments

Every now and then a company comes along that makes you evaluate the way you look at for-profit, hand-over fist money making.

Anybody can be Papa John’s. Anybody can tell their customers that they make fresh sauce, never from a can, and then pour that canned sauce all over a shitty pizza and sell it to them for 13 dollars.

Anybody can be Abercrombie. Anybody can make shitty clothes that look worn out before you even purchase them, and then sell you those thrift store clothes at ridiculous prices.

But Neighborhoodies was different. When you ordered something from them, it was like ordering from your friend. If they couldn’t do it by the date you requested it, they’d send an email saying, “Dude, we fucked up. We won’t charge shipping if we finish it late.”

Their packages always included handwritten notes. When I got ACWF a shirt that said, “Baltimore” across the boobs, the note said, “B-more in the house! [Heart] Nick at Neighborhoodies”. And when I got my friend a hoody that said, “Bat Masterson Junior High” Neighborhoodies sent a note saying, “Wtf? [Heart] Neighborhoodies”.

But now Neighborhoodies has jumped the shark, if that’s even possible. They’ve gone all retarded and decided to participate in the cultural footnote that is this year’s American Idol winner.

I have two problems with this. 1) An American Idol winner co-opted by annoying yupsters and hipsters makes American Idol all the more nauseating. Now, not only do I have to hear about how American Idol doesn’t suck gigantic, sweaty gorilla balls, but I also have to hear it from fucking hipsters who want ironic, or clever, or droll, or whatever idiotic bullshit they’re pulling these days. (Are hipsters still saying they look “Clutch” if they intentionally dress themselves poorly to look “good”? Incidentally, one of the reasons that I loved Neighborhoodies at first sight, is that their main page featured a guy in a shirt that read, “Die hipsters die”. Hipsters ruin everything.)

2) To quote Tbogg’s post, here:

I would like to suggest that anyone who, in any public setting, uses the term “soul” or “soul patrol” in reference to that…thing called Taylor Hicks, be taken out an executed in the street. Wilson Pickett: soul singer. Solomon Burke: soul singer. Sam Cooke, James Brown, Al Green: all soul singers.

Taylor Hicks?: Karaoke Goober

I say that we start hunting these people down.

Do it for the children.

(Added) One more reason to hate America.

(Added…again) If anyone is interested, Ifuckinghatetaylorhicks.com is still available. You can thank me later.

So now what the hell am I supposed to do for custom-made t-shirts? You might think that this would be just a small infraction that I could overlook, but when I start a grudge, I hold it for life. You can ask Walmart about that one. Not because of any political reasons, no, that’s just an added benefit. I haven’t been to Walmart for the past 3 years because I was tired of waiting in line for 30 minutes while rude and idiotic people decided to abandon all indications of civilization a la Lord of the Flies. And now I’m rambling.

It’s the type of thing that perverts do for one another

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 26, 2006 @ 2:54 pm
in art, devil cat, meta blogging, potty humor and sex
. 11 Comments

Just so we’re all clear, Common Wombat did this sketch for me when I was feeling sick. ——–>

In return, I’ve promised to allow his wife to come over and play “Driving” with my cats.

I guess it’s one of those, “If you scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours, and then I’ll put on the full-body, pleather cat-suit and warm up the peanut-butter.”

Am I overreacting?

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 26, 2006 @ 9:12 am
in bitches and work
. 17 Comments

In my office there are about 8 different plants. I don’t even know what half of them are. They just sit there, and I water them, and they keep growing, so I keep watering them, and so on. Then people see that I have plants that keep growing, so people keep giving me plants. And I don’t mind; I actually enjoy seeing so much greenery in my office. The thing is, the only reason I have any plants in my office is because of my stupid, dumb-dumb head brother.

(cue aside to end all asides)

See, for a period of time Mokie was in undergrad and living at school, my older brother had moved out, and I was also in undergrad, but living at home. When Mokie moved into the dorm, he essentially scooped up all the clothes that had been accumulating on his side of the room since the beginning of high-school (yes, we shared a room) and just left the rest of the mess sitting there. As far as I can tell, he never cleaned up his half of the room during the entirety of high-school, and certainly never made an effort to clean up when he first moved into the dorms. A few months later he comes back, dumped his crap on the floor during the school break and started the process all over again when school resumed. A few years ago Mokie moved out for good, and he’d still not cleaned his room. Meaning his side of the room went uncleaned for over 8 years. This is the type of person my younger brother is. Remember this when he insults me in the comments later.

So anyway, at some point in the process my mom gave Mokie a plant to take to school, and maybe he took it, or not, but in the end it wound up on his dresser, the plant’s slowly dying leaves just adding to the 8 year strata of mess that archaeologists would one day title “The Filthyslobezzoic Era”. So on the way to work one morning (yes, I was still living at home) I grabbed the plant and took it to work with me. I plunked it down on a table and nursed it back to health, and it’s still thriving today (and by “nursed” I mean, “gave it water from time to time”). Of the other plants I inherited, the only other one that came from my parent’s house was a pot of ivy. The ivy had a few brown vines six or seven inches long sticking out of the top of the soil, and one or two green vines with a few pale leaves clinging on. Now that ivy is overtaking my office. The longest sections are over 9 feet, and the ivy has a death grip on my inbox. I wouldn’t be able to extricate it if I tried.

(end aside)

So the ivy kind of grows where it wants to, and while it is growing the leaves on the terminal seven or 10 inches of the vine usually go from green to brown to white and vacillate between the three colors, but still continue to grow. You may understand, then, my shock when I came in to find that the cleaning ladies had chopped off about two feet of two of the longest vines.

What the fuck!?

So here’s my dilemma:

a) On the one hand, it’s just a fucking plant, and I should get over it.

b) On the other hand, what fucking right of it is theirs to decide they can chop my fucking plant up whenever they want to?

I mean, fuck, every time I look over and see my ivy sitting there with two shredded vines (the ends were clearly ripped off, and not cut) I get pissed off. To me, it’s as if somebody stole one of my pens. Yeah, in the long run, it’s just a pen, but it was my fucking pen.

What would you do? Would punching them in the face be considered an “overreaction”?

Technology fails me… again

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 24, 2006 @ 9:49 am
in bitches, nerd stuff, suhmuhmuh bitch and word nerd
. 21 Comments

For the past 2 days ACWF and I haven’t had internet access at home. At first I thought it was a regular type problem, so I jiggled all the cables, cords, and wires in their respective jacks but the stupid porn machine was still refusing to produce porn… I mean pay bills. Bills for porn.

Yesterday I finally broke down and called the cable internet people and got quite a character on the other end. Here’s a basic transcript of what followed:

Me: Okay, so now the computer is off and the modem is unplugged.

Guy: SUUp-ah! [This is how he said "Super!"]

Me: Uh…

Guy: Turn your computer back on please, and plug in the modem.

Me: Okay… It’s on… and the modem is plugged in.

Guy: Suuuupah.

Me: ….

Guy: Okay, now click on Internet Explorer and the world will be at your fingertips. [wtf?]

Humoring him, I opened IE, even though I use Firefox.

Me: Nope. Nothing.

Guy: Hmm… try going to Tools in the menu bar-

Me: No good. IE just froze.

(Just as a side note, that was the first time I’d used IE in about 2 years and it crashed almost immediately. Switch to Firefox. You’ll be glad you did.)

Guy: Froze? Oh. Not suuupah.

So we went through the resetting and setting of the computer and the modem, and he kept asking me to open IE; just before each try he’d say something like, “The world is your oyster” or “The internet is yours to harness” or “You have the power to control the internet, just like it was 2 for 1 lap-dance night at the Manhole”.

In the end (ha ha, “In the end”) Mokie had to come over. He discovered that one of the wires was plugged into the the wrong plug-hole on the internet-maker machine. What? I wouldn’t call him if I knew what the shit any of this stuff was supposed to do. Just like he wouldn’t call me if he realized that a gerund always functions as a fucking noun.

But at least now ACWF has her video-game box back.

Look! An actual post, with words! And not a stupid cartoon!

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 23, 2006 @ 9:55 am
in potty humor and sex
. 18 Comments

I think most people are familiar with the “porno name” game that allows you to figure out what your porno name would be. All you have to do is take your first pet’s name and pair that with the name of the street where you grew up.

By means of example, my porn name would be Chuck Woodsdale. Not too bad. That name, a mullet, a moustache, a rock-hard vein-covered wang, and dubious plot will have me doing hygienically questionable things to a silicone-enhanced starlet’s butthole in no time!

At least I’m lucky enough as to not get stuck with a porno name like “Chester Flapjack” or “Neverhadapet Ruralroutenine”. People with names like those always end up as fluffers for guys like me and Robert Goulet.

Anyway, the only reason I bring this up is because I came across the perfect porn name the other day, and it wasn’t as a result of this silly game. It’s a porn-name so perfect that I hesitate to type it here, for fear that you’ll be so overcome with crotchal eruptions that you’ll unconsciously begin downloading porn by the terrabyte (and I’m not talking about regular Playboy porno either. I’m talking about stuff that’s illegal to have delivered through the mail). However, because this guy’s name is already plastered all over numerous neighborhoods by virtue of him being a Realtor, I will share his name with you now:

Harry Bushrod

Oh man! How unfortunate a name is THAT? The only way it could be worse would be if he were named “Hairy Hoohahdong” or “Furry Vaginapenis”. And what happens if it turns out he’s into dudes? His name becomes worthless! If I were gay I wouldn’t bang a guy named Harry Bushrod, that’s for damn sure. Yeah, I’d teabag him, but we wouldn’t have sex.

Though, to be honest, I’m not really in any place to make fun of somebodies name, as my name isn’t exactly Silver Screen material. I would most certainly have change my name if I ever wanted to make it in Hollywood. Some names just don’t go over well with the common folk. It’s why Thomas Mapother IV changed his name to Douchedick… I mean, Tom Cruise; and why Gerry Dorsey changed his name to something simpler, like Engelbert Humperdinck.

“So, what’s your real name?” you ask. Okay, I’ll tell you, but only because it can’t be worse than Engelbert Humperdinck.

My real name is Ballstaint Crotchasscockfart.

This is beginning to become tiresome

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 22, 2006 @ 3:08 pm
in bitches, meta blogging, potty humor and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 13 Comments

Just when I thought I had gotten my blojo (blog + mojo = blojo, you heard it here first) back, my site goes and takes a crap on itself, like so many be-diapered babies with no bowel control.

haxx0red

Published
by
mokiejovis
on May 19, 2006 @ 9:59 am
in necrophilia, nerd stuff and potty humor
. 21 Comments

Somewhere thereabouts of last Tuesday night, our server got hacked. Right now the current estimate is via some kind of SSH exploit (we were running 3.8, latest stable is 4.3). It also appears there might have been some sort of Cacti exploit. Either way, as soon as we discovered it, the machine was shut down without ceremony. It’s taken this long to get it back up and running due to time restraints, but it’s all better now.

Back to your regularly scheduled poop and vagina jokes!

(And necrophilia! Don’t forget necrophilia! - ACW)

(And you can watch a movie about what happened, here. - ACW)

When the mayor of Baltimore asks if you want a beer, you say,”Yes.”

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 8, 2006 @ 8:00 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer, food and work
. 7 Comments

(This story may or may not be partially or completely fictional.)

Recently, my future wife, ACWF, my brother, Mokiejovis, and his wife, my sister-in-law, M, entered into a pact where our consumption of alcohol would be limited to certain occasions between now and my wedding, in the hopes that the decreased levels of alcohol consumption would lead to trimmer tummies and thinner waistlines. For two-and-a-half days I stood strong and did my part, but the siren’s call of free beer offered by our city’s highest ranking official was, in my mind, more than enough reason to break my part of the pact.

Earlier in the day in question, I was offered a ticket to a baseball game by one of my supervisors, but there were, however, strings attached. My ability to actually observe the gameplay would be limited by my responsibility to shmooze, and verbally “sell” the benefits of my office to potential business partners. I asked her how I would be able to do that in the constraining seats at Camden Yards, and with a lilting laugh she informed me that they had reserved a private suite for the occasion. I expressed my excitement with a contemplative, “Oh!” and went on with my work.

Later that day I found myself on the light rail train (my transportation to and from the ballgame are stories in and of themselves), dressed in uncomfortable “business casual” attire. Arriving at the stadium a friendly usher pointed me in the direction of the private escalator reserved for the fortunate few that are in possession of tickets to private suites. Upon entering the suite, the first thing I noticed was the view.

An imaginary line originating between my eyes would have travelled directly through home plate, crossed the middle of the pitchers mound, and then divided second base in half before disappearing across center field and getting lost in Jumbotron. Later in the game I would learn that not only were we centrally oriented, but that we were also at the perfect height to judge the travelling distance of fly balls. Our suite knew a home run when we heard the ball come off the bat, while the rest of the stadium would have to wait an additional 5 seconds for visual confirmation. The small, intangible perks of wealth were becoming apparent.

The second thing I noticed upon entering the suite was how well stocked it was. Leather furniture, padded stadium chairs on wheels, plasma screen televisions, food and snacks everywhere, a refrigerator full of imports and microbrews, and a fairly surprising selection of the region’s best wines.

After investigating the various amenities, I immediately went to work, but unfortunately that work did not include nachos, a ballpark frank, peanuts, or a beer. I shook hands, I smiled, I joked, I swapped stories. The hours pressed on, and the evening gently settled in place of the daylight.

After having been regaled with an authentically amusing story about kegs of beer being used as incentives for telemarketers to meet their quotas, I turned to see who had entered the private suite and had begun speaking very loudly and when I realized I was face to face with the mayor. I was dumbstruck.

He must be met with similarly surprised expressions frequently, because he smiled broadly, offered his hand, and introduced himself. I returned the smile and tried to think of something to say, my brain quickly opting to go for the ways in which my company has served his office in recent history, but before I could get the words out he was leaning into the fridge and asking me if I wanted a beer.

I graciously accepted the beer, opened mine as he opened his, and a few moments later he had turned and begun speaking to someone else. To see him work the room with a beer in hand was quite amusing, and the hollow clunk of an empty beer can in the garbage a few minutes later as he was leaving the suite was a testament to his Irish heritage.

It was only after he left that I realized that I had been holding the beer the entire time, just watching they way he interacted with people, and my mind was singularly focused on one idea:

Why the fuck would he give me a shitty, Euro-trash Heineken, when a perfectly good Maryland microbrew was right next to it? What a douchebag.

Seriously, I need a recommendation

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 2, 2006 @ 9:32 am
in meta blogging
. 8 Comments

As my blog slowly turns to garbage over the next two months, you’ll look back at these posts and think, “Damn, I could have been playing in traffic all that time.”

The uninteresting pictures with a few words scattered about will be replaced with requests for information. The requests for information will be slowly replaced with long periods of nothingness, followed by frantic cocaine-fueled jags of drivel that will be posted and deleted between the hours of 2am and 6am.

Then for a few days it’ll appear as if I’m posting normally, but then you’ll realize that you were looking at someone else’s blog, and when you stop by my blog you’ll notice that this layout and format will have been replaced by an all black background, a digital representation of an hourglass drifiting slowly, grain by grain, towards it’s finsih, and the words “Stop making me think about the wedding!!” scrawled across the bottom of the page in red, blinking letters.

For the time being, can anyone recommend a dermatologist in the Baltimore, Glen Burnie, Catonsville, or Columbia areas? Sorry, but I’m even too exhausted at this point to make a joke about getting anal warts from any of you.

Bad Behavior has blocked 677 access attempts in the last 7 days.