Archive for August, 2006

How about another honeymoon story?

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Anonymous Coworker
on August 16, 2006 @ 9:58 am
in Mrs. ACW, games and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 4 Comments

Mrs. ACW and I chose to travel around beautiful Scotland via train, so we had lots of time to spend with one another, and after a few hours on a train longingly staring into each other’s eyes, forced together close enough to feel the other person breathing, it really stirs some natural instincts.

So we spent a lot of travel time playing hangman.

Now, I’m not one to toot my own horn (by the way, does anyone remember the time I was mentioned in the Baltimore Sun?) but I not only cleaned the floor with Mrs. ACW, but I wrung her out, cleaned the floor with her again, then stuck her in a closet until the next time we played hangman, whereupon I went nuclear on her ass.

Here’s an example: It took me a total of 5 wrong guesses to get the words “fluctuate” and “sable”, while it took Mrs. ACW 20 wrong guesses to get the words “finch” and “disc”.

Even more telling is the next trip when I guessed “wiener”, “canard”, “beasties”, “stench”, and “stenographer” with only 14 total incorrect guesses. Mrs. ACW, however, did not do so well. For “grumplet”, “pastiche”, “cromulent”, “gable”, and “perjure”, she guessed 44 wrong letters. And before you give me a bunch of grief about using the not-quite-real words “grumplet” and “cromulent” those are the words that she guessed with the least wrong letters.

When we weren’t playing hangman, Mrs. ACW suggested we play 20 Questions, a game at which she typically excels. Well, most of the time. Every 9th or 10th round you can be assured that the clue she has in mind is either Wookie or Sherlock, and if it wasn’t one of them, it was probably sheep or Highland Cows.

I never end up asking the right questions, so I flounder helplessly, guessing “cabinets”, “linoleum”, and “brillo pad” when given the clue that the “thing” can be found in the kitchen, but never guessing “marmalade” because I forgot to ask if the thing was “food”.

But otherwise, we just passed the time talking. It’s nice to be stuck with someone who’s a good conversationalist.

Oh, we also boned. A lot.

Just enough information

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on August 15, 2006 @ 9:42 am
in bitches and potty humor
. 14 Comments

1) I haven’t pooped in 3 days. This is a problem. Typically, I’m the type of person who pinches off a loaf every day at the same Bat-time on the same Bat-channel, and then sometimes again in the same day. However, something happened to my digestive system on Saturday, and since then my guts have been acting like the plugged-up plumbing in the bathtub of a hairy-backed Italian man (redundant, I know). In the past few days I’ve taken enough fiber to choke a donkey, and yet to no avail. I have also started weighing myself so as to get some sort of estimate on how much fecal matter is backing up in my system. So far it’s 7 pounds.

2) Yesterday I was dropping off some books at the Baltimore Book Thing, and I noticed that boxes of books were piled on top of the deposit box. Not being the sort of person to give my fellow human any sort of credit, or benefit of the doubt, I took the boxes off the top of the deposit bin and opened the lid to take a peek inside. The deposit bin was almost completely empty.

I hate people so much.

So I spent about 20 minutes unloading the boxes and putting them in the deposit bin, and just as I was about to finish, this woman rolls up and starts unloading bags of books next to the bin! Jiminy fucking Christmas- cricket on a motherfucking crutch! I can imagine the thought process of all you douchebags right now:

“You know, I would feel really good about getting rid of all these shitty books in my house. Maybe I’ll just dump them on the doorstep of the Bookthing and let them deal with it. Damn, I’m so awesome I’m going to masturbate TWICE later!”

3) Oh man, I just pooped! It’s too bad I don’t have a scale handy, because I’m pretty sure it was more than 7 pounds. Click here to see what was causing all the blockage.

Wedding Confidential

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on August 10, 2006 @ 9:31 am
in Mrs. ACW
. 34 Comments

For those of you who know me, you can find pictures of my wedding below. For those of you who don’t know me, you’re not allowed to click on that link and discover what I actually look like. Nyah nyah.

Continue reading ‘Wedding Confidential’

The honeymoon post

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on August 9, 2006 @ 9:28 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, food, jokes, sex and travel
. 13 Comments

After revelling in the post-wedding afterglow brought upon by a combination of unmeasurable love for one another and the kind of sex that can melt your face, Mrs. ACW and I were off to our honeymoon.

We checked in at the Iceland Air desk at the airport, and casually mentioned that we were going on our honeymoon, and they bumped us up to business class, free of charge! Though, maybe it technically wasn’t free since we had to give them handjobs and agree to smuggle some drugs up our butts. Oh well, at least if the balloons burst they said we could keep whatever our bodies absorbed.

Anyway, that’s pretty much where our love affair with Iceland Air ended.

For the first leg of our flight, from the US to Iceland, three 10-12-year-old crotchgoblins-of-the-devil were doing their damnedest to test the impact quotient of the backs of our seats, so we got absolutely no sleep for the latest part of our flight.

On the second half of our flight we were seated in front of a petulant German business-couple who insisted we keep our seats in a fully upright position so that they could get some work done. I reminded them who kicked their asses in the 1940s by ignoring the bastards. That didn’t keep them from passive-aggresively bumping my seat as much as possible for their frequent trips to the bathroom. Stupid tiny-blattered German douchebags.

When we finally arrived in London we quickly gathered our luggage, made our way through customs (sans fingers in buttholes, I might add), and hopped on the first tube towards… Cockfosters. He he he! After what seemed like an interminable ride on the tube in 90 degree heat, we arrived at Russell Square and made our way to the hotel.

After unpacking and showering at the hotel, we ventured out to explore London. London sucked so we went back to the hotel to read and watch tv. Just kidding! We actually just watched tv.

Anyway, we went to an internet cafe to email our families and let them know we’d arrived safe, plus we were meeting up with Deanne and Huw the next day, and email was our only means of contact. I realize that we were to blame for not having a phone, but Deanne insisted that all our communications to her be written in gold on ostrich skins, and be borne on the backs of thirty hairless Brazilian men, so email was our compromise.

After using the internet we stopped at the Subway in the internet cafe to buy some sandwiches and experienced our first culture shock. Mrs. ACW wanted oil and vinegar on her sub, and the Subway girl was totally baffled by Mrs. ACW’s request. However, it was perfectly normal for her to be standing in front of tubs of lettuce, tomatoes, and corn. Corn? Who the crap puts corn on a sandwich? You silly English bastards.

I avoided all that headache by getting a fried-egg and back-bacon sub with fish-and-chips and blood-pudding on a spotted-dick roll.

We then wandered around the British Museum, trying to stay awake until at least 20:00 so our internal clocks would hopefully reset by the next day.

While falling asleep in the museum, we hatched upon the plan to fill ourselves with sugar and caffeine in the hopes of keeping ourselves awake for a few more hours, so on the walk back to our hotel from the museum we stopped in to a convinience store and bought diet cokes and red bulls. And a package of Maryland cookies. WTF? (Brief aside: Anytime we told anyone we were from Maryland they’d say, “Oh, where the cookies come from!” and we’d have to explain to them, “No, those cookies are made in England, and we’ve never even heard of them before.”)

19:00 found Mrs. ACW reading on the bed and kicking her feet like a cracked-out three year old on, uh, crack… I guess… and I was actually standing up while reading, with my head right next to the speaker on the tv, just to keep from falling asleep before 20:00. The Red Bull I drank was of absolutely no help because I fell asleep as soon as I went to bed at 20:00, and I didn’t wake up again until 8:00.

And that’s day 1.

Oh, and here’s a joke:

Jesus and Saint Peter are golfing. St. Peter steps up to the tee on a par three and hits one long and straight. It reaches the green. Jesus is up next. He slices it. It heads over the fence into traffic on an adjacent street. Bounces off a truck, onto the roof of a nearby shack and into the rain gutter, down the drain spout and onto a lilly pad at the edge of a lake. A frog jumps up and snatches the ball in his mouth. An eagle swoops down, grabs the frog. As the eagle flies over the green, the frog croaks and drops the ball. It goes in the hole. Saint Peter looks at Jesus, exasperated. “Are you gonna play golf?” he asks “Or are you just gonna fuck around?”

The power of Christ compels you to plug that thing up.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on August 7, 2006 @ 11:31 am
in Mrs. ACW
. 16 Comments

Having been married for a month, I realize that things are beginning to change. People kept telling us that, “It’s different when you’re married,” and, “Being married changes everything,” and we thought those people didn’t really know what they were talking about. But now I’m beginning to understand that those people were right.

Take communication for example. Mrs. ACW and I always communicated pretty well, but now that we’re married, it’s become creepy how well we communicate. When Mrs. ACW goes to get something to drink, she always seems to know when I want something to drink as well, and she brings me a glass of whatever she’s having.

Or, here’s a better example. Last night I farted, and it was so nasally offensive that it actually woke Mrs. ACW from her sleep. She groggily complained about “seared nostrils” and “Satan’s butthole” and “the devil’s fiery, sulphuric ass is no comparison for the bed-burner you just forcibly sodomized my nose with”.

See, I was able to communicate with Mrs. ACW so well, and without even using words, that it stirred her from her sleep.

P.S. Everybody that told us things would change has been wrong. Nothing has changed except tax and insurance information.

An almost, sort-of, “honeymoon post,” kinda

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on August 2, 2006 @ 1:47 pm
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, food and travel
. 15 Comments

Ready to leave the blighted, festering cesspool that Scotland refers to as “Glasgow” in our dust, we left our hotel at about 7am. We knew the closest Airport shuttle stop was about a block and a half away, and that the shuttles made a pick-up every 15 minutes, but that didn’t stop us from running like crazy to catch the bus that crossed our path on the way to the stop.

We were crossing the street at the North East corner of George Square (the far corner in this photo) when the bus passed us, and we had to get to the south west corner.

We hauled asses, luggage, and backpacks all the way over to the far side of the square just as the bus turned the south east corner and stopped to pick up the waiting passengers on the other side of the street. Just as we were about to admit defeat, we heard sirens in the distance and all the traffic stopped. We’d only have one chance to make it to the airport shuttle (at this point completely forgetting that another shuttle would be by in 10 minutes) and to take that chance called for us to dash across the street in front of the fire engine that was barrelling up the road, lights flashing, siren blaring, firefighters bagpiping. (All Scottish people take bagpipes everywhere. Honest.) I made a dash for the bus at the same time as an on-foot commuter, and we both made it across safely. Mrs. ACW, on the other hand, hesitated for just a moment, and almost got flattened. (And in retrospect, that would have been the nicest we’d been treated in Glasgow.) I managed to stall the bus driver by counting out the fare like I was retarded, and a few moments later Mrs. ACW boarded the bus safely.

Not content with a calm, stress-free ride to the airport, Mrs. ACW was sure that we had boarded a bus to the wrong airport, and threw an itty-bitty hissy fit when I refused to dig through my luggage to find our itinerary in order to confirm her suspicions. As if the bus driver was going to a) turn the bus around for our benefit, ignoring all the other passengers, or b) let us off on the side of the highway to slowly trudge back towards the infectious waste-pile of Glasgow.

Luckily, it was a moot hissy-fit, because we had in fact gone to the correct airport, just as I had been saying. And for the record, I never received an apology for bearing the brunt of that pointless hissy-fit. (Any bets on when we’re getting divorced? I hear the big money is on “Next Week”.)

We queued for our tickets for three quarters of an hour, and having a pocket full of shrapnel left to spend, we gorged ourselves on oddly named candybars (Fizzle!, Twist, Gobulisciousirishbabiesyummykins, etc.) in the airport.

We chose to sleep on the plane rather than subject ourselves to “The Shaggy Dog” or “Everybody Loves Raymond”, and when we woke up, we were in Iceland. And we had a four-hour layover.

Lucky for us, Iceland Air realized that a four hour layover is about as stimulating as the craptastic programming on their flights, so they made an announcement that we could go on a whale-watching trip courtesy of their airline. So we got off the plane, went through customs, and arrived at the appointed spot in the airport to catch the shuttle for the whale-watching tour. The tour organizers asked if we had vouchers. Of course not! Iceland Air had failed to mention that we needed them! Hurray!

Rather than going back through customs, we decided that we’d just pay the 800 billion kronors (1 million kronors = a bag of turnips) and go on the tour. Upon exiting the warmth of the airport, Mrs. ACW mentioned how cold it was outside, and I remarked, “In Iceland, no less.” She didn’t think I was very funny.

A quick bus ride, and we were at the port. The whale-watching boat was called the “Moby Dick” which either means that the tour company was not without a sense of irony, or their English wasn’t so great.

At this point it should be mentioned that I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and Mrs. ACW was sensibly wearing jeans… and a t-shirt. Lucky for us they had water-proof pants and coats in circus-freak sizes. I was wearing XXXXL pants and a Small raincoat. It’s like my bottom half was “DJ Longshoreman” and my top half was a child molester. As we were adding layers, the ship pulled away from the port and we started a smooth, uneventful trip toward the Atlantic.

Then for the next two hours the captain tried to execute a barrel-roll. And no matter how many times the tour guide called out “one o’clock” or “ten o’clock” to tell us which way to look to see whales, all I ever saw was the fin of a minke whale. Mrs. ACW only saw a blowhole discharge. (There’s a joke in there somewhere.) By the time we made it back to port Mrs. ACW was a shade of green normally reserved for pea-soup, we were both very very cold, and we were feeling like we had been ripped off.

And yet, it was still better than Glasgow.

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