Archive for June, 2006

I was agog. It is too a word.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on June 9, 2006 @ 10:05 am
in suhmuhmuh bitch
. 30 Comments

The following conversation took place at the customer service desk of a local Target. A woman was returning some books, and a video. I was in line behind her. I offer you this conversation with no commentary.

Woman: I’d like to return this stuff please. (Hands books, video, receipt to Target Drone)

Drone: Okay, no problem. (Starts scanning items, receipt)

Woman: I also want to return some other books.

Drone: Okay. I can take those too.

Woman: I don’t have them with me.

Drone: Oh, well if you need to go get them out of your car, that’s fine. I’ll keep working on these.

Woman: No, I don’t have them. They’re at home.

Drone: … Uh, you can’t return them if they’re at your home.

Woman: Well, I don’t want them and I want to return them.

Drone: Okay. That’s fine, but they need to be here when you return them.

Woman: Why? I have the other things here (she gestures at her items) why can’t you just return the other things I want to return, and I’ll drop them off later.

Drone: Uh, you really can’t do that. You need to have the item with you in order to return it.

Woman: (audible, dramatic sigh. Turns around, rolls eyes, gives me the “Aren’t these Target people retarded?” look, I give her the “You must be fucking bonkers/Stunned silence” look. She misinterprets my look as somehow reaffirming her position. She smiles, turns back to the Drone who is giving me the “Is this bitch crazy or what?” look. I nod.)

Drone: Do you want to go get the items?

Woman: No, I don’t have time for that. I guess (SIGH) I’ll just return these things.

Drone: Okay. (Starts scanning and doing the whole return process thingy)

Woman: (Snatches receipt from register and starts examining it)

Drone: (Looks up, opens his mouth, closes it, shakes head, goes back to work)

Woman: I didn’t buy this.

Drone: The receipt?

Woman: No, this flat toad. I didn’t buy a flat toad.

Drone: Flat toad?

Woman: Yes, I didn’t buy it, and they charged me for it, and I want my money back.

Drone: Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you should have checked the receipt before you left the store. I can give you store credit for these items that you have here.

Woman: Store credit?! You need to give me cash! I paid cash for those things and I want cash!

Drone: I’m sorry, our policy is to give store credit.

Woman: I want cash! I didn’t buy this flat toad! Let me talk to a manager!

Drone: (Silently thanking whoever he worships that he won’t be on his own much longer. Picks up walkie talkie.) Sherry, please come to the front desk.

Woman: (Tries to give me the look again. My expression is set on “You shouldn’t be allowed to breed”.)

Manager: What can I do for you?

Woman: I want to return these things, and I want cash for my items! And I want my money back for this flat toad that I didn’t even buy!

Manager: Okay, let’s see what we can do here. May I see your receipt please?

Woman: (flings receipt at Manager)

Manager: (Calmly picks up receipt off counter) Okay. Which items did you want to return? These here? (Gestures to books and video).

Woman: Yes, and the other books I have at home.

Manager: At home?

Woman: Yes, I don’t have them with me. If you could just refund me my money now, I will drop them off later, or tomorrow.

Manager: We can’t do that. You need to have the items here to return them.

Woman: (SIGH) This is ridiculous! You are the only store that has a policy like this! Every other store I’ve ever been to has let me return things later!

Manager: (Visibly wondering if it’s possible to actually BE that dumb) Well, that’s not our policy.

Woman: Well, can you at least refund my money for this flat toad that I didn’t even buy?!

Manager: (Looks at receipt) I don’t even see “flat toad” on here.

Woman: (Snatches receipt, looks at it, points) Here. Right here.

Manager: (reading) “Tote flat”.

Woman: Yeah. Toad flat. Flat toad. I don’t even know what that is.

Manager: Did you buy a beach bag, or shoulder bag?

Woman: Uh, yeeees (with “no duh you stupid manager” inflection).

Manager: Well, sometimes they call a beach bag a “toTe” (emphasizes second “t”).

Woman: That’s a stupid name for it then. (Looks back at me again for support. I ignore her and give the Manager and Drone the “I’d be happy to kill her for you right now look, but you’ll have to erase the in-store tapes, and I’d want store credit for life” look. They give me the, “It’s a deal” look.)

Manager: What I can do is return the items you have here. We will issue you cash for the items that you have here. Okay?

Woman: Fine, whatever.

(Drone begins to help me)

Woman: I need that cash. I’ve got bills to pay. … You know, I need the money, so I have to return this stuff. (Drone, Manager, and I exchange the “If you needed the money you shouldn’t have spent it on shit you were going to return anyway you stupid bitch” look.)

Manager: Yes, well, we’ve all got bills to pay.

(Drone finishes helping me)

Woman: So can you give me cash for that toad thing now too, and I’ll drop that off later?

Me: (to drone and manager) Good luck.

I wouldn’t use those to strangle, and then forcibly sodomize, my worst enemy

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on June 8, 2006 @ 9:43 am
in contests, games and meta blogging
. 16 Comments

So the other day Carolyn at Whirled Events emails me and tells me that she’s having a “World’s Ugliest Tie” contest/meme/thing and asks if I would like to participate. Because I spent four years in Catholic school wearing a tie every day to school, and knowing that I still had some of those ties, and knowing that those ties were simply hideous, I said, “Yeah, I’ll give it a go.”

So, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve outlined my ties below. Those of you who have just recovered from Lasik surgery, or those of you with astigmatism, or those of you with fashion sense/taste may want to look away. Go have a wheatgrass enema, or whatever it is you fashionable people do.

This is a picture of all the ties that are so ugly that I can’ bear to throw them away. I have many new ties now. Ties that are respectable. Ties that match things. Ties that weren’t inpired by the seething pool of filth, degredation, disease, and human excrement that typify the backstage area after a James Taylor concert.
ties

This is a detail photo of the wool ties from the picture above. As you can see, they were lovingly handcrafted by a blind sadist, and resmble knitted, unrolled condoms. The height of fashion would not be high enough to hang yourself for wearing one of these.
wool ties close

This is the striped-tie collection. As you can see by the reflected luminescence of the flash on the ties, not a single natural material was used in the production of these style-abortions. “What goes well with brown?” Silver, grey, red, blue! I imagine this is what Ralph Lauren’s cancer might look like.
striped ties close

Finally we make it to the single ugliest tie in my collection. I encourage you to click on the image below for the opportunity to view it full-sized. Not content having captured the color of baby leavings, the designer of this tie incorporates a new shade of toddler shit into each stripe! Look, there’s bananas and peas! Look, there’s carrots and corn! Look, there’s peanut-butter and cat-food! Obviously, this is my favorite tie.
orange tie close

So, I, by proxy of Carolyn, challenge you to find ties uglier than the ones profiled here, and on Carolyn’s site. Also, let me know if you want to borrow any of them.

Yum-yums + up-top hole. Got it.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on June 6, 2006 @ 9:00 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer and food
. 12 Comments

You know what I really hate? I hate it when people blog about how drunk they got the previous weekend/evening. “Oh, look at me, I drank so many beers that the hospital sold my urine to Michelob.” I’m so tired of hearing about how you got drunk on Friday/Saturday/Your Birthday/Your cousin’s bris. Many people have been drunk before, and drunk people are always the same. They’re stupid, but they think they’re funny, and they expect everyone else to find it hilarious that they made pants pudding when alcohol rendered their bowels a sphincter-aversive poop-cannon. Well, guess what? Nobody likes hearing about your stupid, drunken escapades. Go back to praying to your porcelain god.

Sorry about that. I just needed to rant a little. Anyway, I got pretty fuckin’ drunk this weekend. I wasn’t trying to; it just kind of happened. My family was having a surprise party for my dad’s 60th birthday and it was my job to keep him busy all day long. So we worked on a ‘lectrical problem in my shed while the rest of my family got my parent’s house ready for the party. I hadn’t had any breakfast, and lunch was only soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, (which makes ACWF pretty much Glen Burnie’s worst housefiance, and that’s saying something) so my crap factory was pretty empty.

After working in the shed all day, taking a trip to the dump, and other tactics to stall my father’s homeward journey, I was hungry. When I got to the party I snacked; and I drank as I snacked. Then I learned that all the food being cooked on the grill was made from a delightful melange of bovine spongiform encephalopathy, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, Escherichia coli, and a few bull anuses, I realized that I wouldn’t be eating any substantial food. What? Beef is gross.

The snacks were delicious, but not satisfying, so the snacking began to taper off, and the drinking began to taper on. At the height (length? girth?) of the tapering I was surrounded by my dad’s brother, nephew, friends, and neighbors, and I was going on and on about how my dad is a dirty hippie because he has an electric lawnmower. I must have thought I was some sort of Stephen Colbert, but I probably sounded more like that CALLATTing cock-knocker Carrottop.

I vaguely remember Mokie telling me ACWF had driven home in irritation and disgust after I ignored and abandoned her for about an hour (or more). Then, I’m told, I got into Mokie’s car for him to take me home whereupon I grabbed a small object from the back seat and threw it at the front of the car. It bounced off the dashboard and hit my grandmother, who happened to be riding shotgun. I am a terrible grandson.

Once I got home, my now utterly pickled brain decided it would be a good idea for me to do some push-ups: I had forgotten to do my daily set of push-ups that morning. Ten push-ups into the set my arms were already weakening… and then my nose began to bleed.

I called downstairs to ACWF and asked her to bring up some carpet cleaner. She thought I had vacated the evening’s yum-yums from my up-top hole (a polite euphemism for vomiting that I’m trying to work into the vernacular) and was relieved to learn that only two drops of blood had actually made it from my nose to the carpet. However, to hear her recount the story the next day, “there was blood everywhere”.

I then spent the next few hours in a slow transition from consciousness to booze-coma as I watched TV, decided to sleep on the floor, then somehow awoke to put myself to bed.

I post this not as an attempt to get you to chortle at my apparent inability to maintain any semblance of self-control, but so that I can remember a) why it’s important not to drink so much, and b) why I hate reading about other people’s stupid drunkenness. Hopefully you can learn a lesson from this as well: that lesson is “vacated the evening’s yum-yums from my up-top hole” should be used in place of the word “vomit”.

Epilogue: I called my grandmother to apologize; she yelled at me for apologizing, and told me that she knew I was just having a good time. She informed me that I am STILL her favorite grandchild (suck it, bitches) and that I should come visit her. I hope this is not a ruse for her get back at me by pummeling my crotch with her feeble, arthritic, liver-spotted hands.

There’s no excuse for my behavior

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on June 2, 2006 @ 10:54 am
in word nerd
. 15 Comments

Some people are addicted to drugs or alcohol. Some people eat too much, or eat too little. Me? I’m a word junkie. I’m hooked on phonics.

Here’s what I saw scrawled in a parking space last night:
shawn dodge

And here’s what my brain wanted to do to it:
shawn dodge2

I hope that Mr. K, if no one else, is proud.

This blog is now ass-joke free (compared to Common Wombat)!

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on June 1, 2006 @ 11:07 am
in Mrs. ACW and food
. 8 Comments

The other day ACWF and I were shopping for our various food necessities (guess which one of us threw a tantrum when s/he couldn’t get the peanut-butter and jelly pre-mixed in the jar) when we found ourselves stopped in the pasta aisle looking at various dried cheeses. They had Parmesan, Parmesan & Romano, Romano oregano, and the cheesiest, Ray Romano. (Ha! I kill me!) I noticed that they also had versions of all the cheeses with “33% less fat!” so I moved in to investigate. The only thing that made these cheeses a third less fatful (yuh-huh, is so a word) was some mathematical misdirection. Here’s a little group of equations to show you how the food engineers at Kraft reduced fat by 33%:

Regular cheese fat per serving = 10g = 1 tablespoon serving size

33% less fat cheese fat per serving = 6.5g = 2 teaspoon serving size

1 tablespoon = 3 teaspoons

therefore, by some retarded logic:

2 teaspoons = a 33% reduction in fat.

Keep your eyes peeled for new “healthy” alternatives everywhere you go!

Doritos, now with 50% less sodium (compared to topping your Doritos with 1 tsp of table salt)!

Oreos, now with 75% less sugar (compared to snorting lines of confectioner’s sugar)!

Big Mac, now 99% fat free (compared to mainlining bacon grease while eating mayonnaise with a spoon)!

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