Archive for January, 2008

And do math problems 1, 3, and 9 on page 286.

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Anonymous Coworker
on January 31, 2008 @ 9:16 am
in contests and necrophilia
. 21 Comments

So, necrophilia. Someone *coughzenchickcough* has for the past few years, introduced me to new people like this:

“Hey, this is ACW. He likes necrophilia.” Then she looks at me and goes, “Have fun!” and walks away. Sometimes she literally barks, “Go!” before throwing down her hand like a referee, observing the trainwreck of conversation that follows.

As I look at the partly amused and partly horrified face of a stranger I have to very quickly explain the whole history of this necrophilia thing, explain that I find necrophilia repulsive, and then explain that I’m hard pressed to understand why we can’t allow people to do it.

Most of the time people try to corner me by saying things like, “But digging up a grave is trespassing!” or “You wouldn’t want some stranger humping your relatives’ corpses, would you?”

And that’s when it finally clicked with me: if you treat necrophilia like a consensual sexual encounter, similar rules have to be followed. You can’t just go into somebody’s house and have sex with them. That’s tresspassing (to say the least). Similarly, you can’t just bust into a morgue or cemetery. You can’t just start having sex with a stranger (for the most part), and similarly, you can’t start having sex with a stranger’s corpse.

Now, the issue of consent is a difficult one, because a body can’t consent. However, the person can consent before they become a body, and in that case, I don’t see any reason why a necrophile couldn’t have sex with that body if they had been given consent to do so by the person before they became a body. See what I mean?

So, because I have back to back meetings pretty much all day long, I have a homework assignment for you:

In the comments, give me your best arguments for or against necrophilia. Feel free to play devil’s advocate and take a stance that you might not actually support. Feel free to challenge one another’s points. You can check my necrophilia tag for some of the arguments I’ve made in the past. Also, I still find necrophilia repulsive, but if someone gave someone else consent to hump their corpse, I don’t see why we shouldn’t let them do it.

People keep asking me to post about necrophilia, so if I come back to check my comments and see nothing going on, this’ll probably be the last time I post about necrophilia. I can only make the same arguments over and over again so many times.

You might be tempted to watch it now. Don’t.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 30, 2008 @ 10:39 am
in movies, ocd, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 17 Comments

I’m not sure how many people know how much I love movies. If I’m flipping through the channels looking for something to watch and I see the stars spinning up over the Paramount logo, or the TriStar pegasus running towards the camera, or the Universal globe, or the MGM lion, that’s it, I’m done for. Whatever the movie is, for good or for bad, I’m watching it. Even if I all I catch is the opening credits with the theme music starting, I may as well be shackled to the chair.

For example, I once won free tickets to the over-long and under-entertaining Four Feathers (I realize the recently departed Mr. Ledger was in it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t suck balls)*. Free tickets. FREE. And 7 hours into the first half of the movie when my friends wanted to leave, I was like, “No, let’s stay. I’m sure it will get better.” And two days later, it did get better when it ended. They must have shot that movie for 37 years for as long as it felt like it was. IMDB says it was only 130 minutes, but I’m pretty sure when I left I was collecting Social Security benefits.

A further example: Dr. T. and the Women. Dr. T and the Women is by far, bar none, the worst movie ever made. And I mean “worst” in every possible way. Everything about it was a horrible eye-sodomizing punch in the brain. The acting, the directing, the story, the music, the free merchandise distributed with the movie. Again, I got free tickets to see this movie, and even when I wanted to firebomb the whole theater before the opening credits were over, I still sat through the whole thing. They were giving out movie t-shirts before the movie, and once the movie was done I stood up, tore the tshirt they gave me into pieces, threw it on the floor, and stormed out of the theater. I hated every minute of that movie. I’ve never been so angry and unhappy in my life. I would gladly relive the horrible three month emasculation that was the breakup with my high-school girlfriend rather than ever watch that movie again.

Many people don’t believe me when I tell them how bad it is. Well, let me try to get you to where I am at this point. Imagine your least favorite movie. Whatever it is, Biodome, Chicago, Blair Witch, whatever, just picture watching it. Now, staple your genitals to a car battery, put your legs in a tree shredder, submerge your head in a bucket of shit, cover your left arm in leeches, and pay a sadist to peel the skin off your right arm. Imagining that? Good. That’s how the first 10 minutes of Dr. T and the Women feels. And I sat through the whole damn thing. I’ve blogged about my hatred of this movie before, if you’re interested, but I feel I must move on.

This is a transitional sentence!

I think there are two reasons why I’m so drawn to movies now. Part of it definitely has to do with the fact that I’m OCD and once I start something, I have trouble thinking clearly until I finish it. The other reason is that as a kid my parents never really took us to the movies. It was sort of a once yearly thing. I think they saw them as a big waste of money. I’m kind of inclined to agree with them, but still, my Netflix queue is 495 movies long, and it would be longer if Netflix allowed me to add any more than 500 movies. Case in point, I have the move “Medicine Man” in my queue which I’m pretty sure was roundly ignored by the entire planet, and yet, since I saw a commercial for it when I was 12, I still want to see it.

So what’s the point of all this? A pathetic attempt at self defense for the oncoming suggestions that I’m metro… because last night I watched The Lake House. Alone. I was flipping through the channels to see if there was anything I could watch before putting on Fast Food Nation, and I came across the Lake House just as the credits were rolling. Not knowing what it was, and OCD kicking in high-style, it took me about 20 minutes to realize I was watching dreck, but by then it was too late.

Lucky for me two of the themes of the movie are architecture and temporal relativity, otherwise I may have been bored out of my mind, and also luckily for me, this movie was really bad, which made it easy to laugh at. The cinematography was ham-handed and hackish at best, culminating in it’s crappiness on a wobbly zoom of Keanu in a reflection of a window and then holds there until he eventually sneezes. If it sounds stupid and confusing and dumb, you’re right, it is. But still, I watched it from beginning to end. From one tortured monologue to the next. Seriously, at points I was expecting the director to trot out holding a sign that says, “Here comes another tired and worn out cliche from chick flicks! Prepare yourself for the banality!” A little counter in the corner counting the cliches would have surely exploded within the first half hour. The movie was really that terrible.

I know some of you out there will want to argue with me. “But ACW, you have to admit, it was a sweet movie.” or “It was a good story, even if it was kind of stupid.” or maybe even, “Hey, my names Sandra Bullock and I was in that and I didn’t think it was that bad. At least, the cash wasn’t. Ch-ching! Ha ha, suckers!”

You are all wrong. The movie was terrible, and every DVD should be broken into a million pieces and stabbed into Richard Gere’s face lest he make another Dr. T and the Women. God how I hate that movie. I guess the fart and necrophilia jokes can wait until tomorrow.

*I think this counts as a “dick” joke.

I guess this is like a press conference, or something

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 29, 2008 @ 9:57 am
in meta blogging
. 15 Comments

I knew people would have a personal reaction to that announcement. I have known plenty of blogs that have shuttered over the years, some unexpectedly, some I knew would end from the very beginning, and some gave advance notice. For each and every one of those blogs I had some type of reaction along the lines of, “Damn.” Sometimes more angry than that, sometimes more sad, but always, “Damn.”

I know a lot of people read my blog, and I appreciate that. Back when I started I had no idea what this was going to turn into, or how it would turn out, but I’d be lying if I didn’t flirt with the idea of having millions of readers. Yes. I was that stupid. So logging on every morning and finding 15 people that found something I wrote stupid/funny/offensive enough to comment on was awesome. Every time I refresh my aggregator and see new comments have appeared it’s like a tiny little present. And because I’m OCD I delay my gratification and let that bold link sit there with it’s bright red asterisk next to it until I can’t stand it anymore, and then I click over to see what someone has said. Every time it’s as awesome as the first time I ever got a comment.

So yeah, I’m losing something too. I’m not going to have those comments to open anymore. I’m not going to have this outlet to be as ridiculously obscene as possible. I won’t be able to regularly push the limits of socially acceptable manners. I’m going to lose a big chunk of community. This isn’t a decision I’ve reached lightly, but after 4 years the bad has begun to look like it’s going to outweigh the good soon, and I don’t want it to end like that. I don’t want to fade out with once-monthly updates that sound apathetic and soulless.

And while I appreciate everything everyone has said, positive or negative, I’ve made up my mind on this. I didn’t anticipate having to write a blog post like this, so I’m a bit at a loss for words. I guess I’ll just spend the time I would have spent blogging responding to comments that people have starting with the ones from yesterday, and then moving on to any that crop up today. Tomorrow, it’s back to dick and fart jokes.

The announcement

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 28, 2008 @ 9:43 am
in meta blogging and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 43 Comments

Because I already hated having to put a post saying I was going to make an announcement, and because it drives me absolutely kitten-punchingly bonkers when people bury their announcement in a mountain of indecipherable, sophomoric prose and put the most important piece of information at the end of the post, forcing you to wade through metaphors so forced that if you used the same force to pass a toilet baby you’d give yourself an aneurysm, I’m giving you my announcement up front:

August 27th, 2008, will be the last time this blog is updated. And just to be absolutely clear, I’m not transferring domain names, I’m not starting this blog somewhere else, I’m not doing anything. This blog will be done. There will be no more posts or updates, and once the domain expires, it’ll be gone forever.

Sure, if something remarkable happens, like me coming into a ton of money, I’ll of course pop in for one last, “Ha ha suckers, I can buy and sell your asses now,” but that’ll be it. Chances are extremely super-duper strong that this site won’t be updated again after August 27th.

I’ve got my reasons after the jump, but I don’t want anyone to feel compelled to read that garbage, so you can skip along now, if you’d like.

Continue reading ‘The announcement’

Where’s the beef? Ask your mom.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 25, 2008 @ 9:28 am
in food, nog, potty humor, sex, suhmuhmuh bitch and work
. 21 Comments

I accidentally ate beef yesterday.

To many of you, this means nothing. Let me clarify: I don’t eat beef because it gives me horrible, jet-propulsion equivalent diarrhea. Typically when people ask me why I don’t eat beef I tell them that it upsets my stomach. This is simply a polite way of saying that my ass becomes an uncontrollable anti-aircraft cannon of sound-barrier destroying feces.

Typically the next question is, “So are you a vegetarian?”. Of course not. Meat is delicious. Our teeth have evolved for shredding flesh as well as mashing grains. We’re omnivores. We’re supposed to eat meat. We’re supposed to eat grains. Not eating any grains is as dumb as not eating any meat. Not eating meat is like looking at a hundred-million years of evolution and going, “Oh yeah? Well, nyah nyah, I think I know better.” You don’t know better. You’re an idiot. Anyway, yeah, meat is delicious. I could think of no meal finer than a warm, soft, freshly-baked roll stuffed with bacon, sausages, and a pile of shredded steak slathered in melted cheese, deep-fried, wrapped in back-bacon, and then stuffed into a Christmas goose. That shit would be delicious.

“Ah ha! I can see you’re lying again. You just now said you would eat steak!” Yeah, of course I would eat steak, but in this case, I have to concede a point to all those uppity, holier-than-thou vegetarians and vegans out there: beef, as grown, prepared, and served in America is less hygienic than licking the underside of the toilet seat after I’ve eaten beef. I’ll let you take a second to figure that one out. Done? Great. Beef in the US is swimming with disease and crammed with hormones and antibiotics even before it ever reaches the slaughterhouse. Yes, crammed with both disease and disease-preventatives. Too much of both, in fact. That doesn’t mean that the beef isn’t delicious, it just means you shouldn’t eat it. I would love to eat beef again, but after spending a few months off of it, even just a little makes me horribly sick. I watched Supersize Me and read Fast Food Nation back to back a few years ago, and after a few months of going off beef, I’ve never been able to eat it again without the aforementioned shit-Pollocking of the nearest toilet.

Most of you, I realize, stuff your mouths with beef on a daily basis with no ill-effects, and I have no problem with what you do during your free time, but I was talking about cows, not wangs you perverts. And certainly not cow wangs.

Anyway, yeah, I don’t eat the stuff, so yesterday at the buffet when my chicken parmesan turned out to be veal parmesan I was faced with a tough decision: stop eating and haul ass to the nearest toilet, bucket, or dumpster; or use the opportunity to eat the bejesus out of some beef. Many of you will have already guessed that I chose the latter, but I still feel compelled to explain my reasoning.

I figured that my intestinal system was like a community yard sale. On most days, the yard sale was filled with the junk of the surrounding community, and the poor bastard who hosted the yard sale would have to keep all the junk in his garage until the next yard sale. And of course as the stuff sat in the garage it would slowly matriculate into the house, forever occupying some darkened corner until it was forcibly removed. But beef is like this giant catapult, and instead of the people filling the guy’s yard, they just fill the catapult, knowing that it will eventually go off and they won’t have to worry about any of their junk cluttering anyone’s garage ever again. Do you see what I’m getting at?

I went apeshit double-whammy bananas on the rest of the buffet. Fried chicken with gravy? Why the hell not? Four slices of pie? Don’t mind if I do. Taco salad? Sure, it’ll be gone in 20 minutes anyway. I was my own personal Roman orgy, minus the sex of course. And the vomiting. And the togas. And the violence. Okay, so I wasn’t really like a Roman orgy at all except that I stuffed myself silly on food I don’t normally eat because I knew that even if I consumed 5700 calories, there would only be about 400 left in my system once the beef hit my large intestine.

Almost like clockwork I felt my tailpipe about to go “Old Faithful” in the middle of the ninth hand-sized cookie I was using as a spoon for my third bowl of soft-serve ice cream. I full-on sprinted to the bathroom and made it just in time. Of course I caused quite a ruckus (geyser allegory is never used lightly), and passing half-chewed food is never fun, but I honestly only have one regret:

the buffet wasn’t serving eggnog.

This is where the title goes

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 24, 2008 @ 9:45 am
in Mrs. ACW, POS Tercel, bitches, movies, people are idiots, potty humor, suhmuhmuh bitch, the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs and work
. 12 Comments

So, man, have I been a terrible blog owner lately. First there’s nothing to write about, then I go away for a week and a half, then I come back and again have shit all to write about. I can’t say exactly where I went, or what I did, but I did learn some new magic tricks and mind-reading games, as well as a few new drinking games. Because it’s always handy to trick someone into buying you a drink, and then playing a game that gets you so drunk you’re soiling your diapers less than an hour later. What? You don’t wear diapers? Oh. Well, neither do I. Moving on.

A buddy of mine has entered a short story in the Amazon.com short story competition. Because I’m a lazy bastard, I will use nearly the exact text he used when he told me to read it and write a nice review. “I’ve been selected as a semifinalist in Amazon.com novel competition, and I’m looking to shore up support for my book by getting anyone and everyone in the world to write reviews and post ratings for my book. In order to do this, obviously, I have to tell you where it is. It’s here.” So wander over and take a look at what’s he’s got going on, and be sure to give it a good review. Also, feel free to buy me something off my wishlist while you’re over there. Because I’m awesome.

Let’s see… what else is going on. I have a pretty big announcement for next week, so feel free to stop by on Monday to see what that’s all about. I’m not trying to be some hit-whoring blog-tease, it’s just that I haven’t written the post for the announcement yet. I can’t post something I haven’t written yet, jerks. Calm the crap down. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, the internet will go on.

Speaking of the internet, I haven’t yet had a chance to reacquaint myself with it since I’ve been gone outside of occasional dalliances into the ether in response to an email query. I’m completely and utterly behind news-wise. I have no idea what’s been going on in the primaries, or with the economy, or anything. The only news item I’ve heard recently was that Heath Ledger died, which sucks, because he always seemed to be one of those Hollywood types who wasn’t constantly stuffing his nose full of coke, shaving his head, and flashing his junk at the media. I think we’ve lost someone who could have been a fantastic lifetime actor, and that sucks. Proving there is no god, Richard Gere continues to live. Also, I have a flat tire. Woo hoo to spending money on shit I wasn’t anticipating!

The Missus and I were supposed to get tattoos for Holiday presents (the war on Xmas doesn’t end with the season, now does it?) for each other, and I’m struggling with ideas. I sort of had all my tattoo ideas laid out in my head, and when the guy at the shop advised me on why he thought one of my tattoo placement ideas wasn’t a good idea, it kind of sent my whole tattoo plan into flux. At the same time, I’ve been brimming with new ideas that I can’t get because I have a personal rule about waiting one year before getting an idea tattooed on myself. Also, please don’t suggest any ideas, because I don’t get stuff done that isn’t my own idea, and you might ruin a potential future idea I have. There’s nothing worse than seeing or hearing about a tattoo that I had only begun to formulate mentally.

I think aside from that stuff I don’t really have much going on right now, but you know I’ll let you know as soon as I see something bizarre/stupid/weird/funny. In the meantime, I will continue to sort through the ninety-hojillion emails I have left, and keep meeting with people. (This is, I think, my newest pet peeve. Almost worse than those that continually email me after having gotten my vacation message are people who schedule meetings back to back the day I get back to work. Don’t they realize I have better things to do then listen to them drone on about the decisions they reached in meeting when I wasn’t there?)

Yeah yeah yeah

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 23, 2008 @ 9:23 am
in potty humor, sex and work
. 6 Comments

I’m busy playing catch-up. Entertain yourselves with these:

great meat buys

bert and bliss

Leave a message after the beep

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 15, 2008 @ 8:14 am
in people are idiots, sex, the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs, travel and work
. 8 Comments

Hi, this is Anonymous Coworker and I’m not available to write this blog. I’ll be out of the intertubes from Friday, January 11th, until Wednesday, January 23rd. If you need to read a blog immediately, please go check somewhere else on the information superhighwebs. If you’re the other 99.9% of the internet population and you’re looking for boobies, you can find some here. (Vote for Dizzy Von Damn: 3rd column across, 8th row down.)

Any comments left between now and January 23rd will be replied to on or after January 23rd. Any comments requesting immediate action before January 23rd will have their email addresses forwarded to Chris Hansen with “Here’s a pervert for you” in the subject line.

More likely a tarp, though. Fewer leaks.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 14, 2008 @ 8:07 am
in Glen Burnie, Mrs. ACW, food, movies, nog and potty humor
. 10 Comments

What can be said about Stirring’s eggnog that hasn’t already been said about getting hit in the face with a warm sack of diarrhea?

eggnog

Actually, that’s a bad analogy. Stirring’s eggnog is like being told that you’re going to get the super-awesomest puppy that ever existed, when you instead end up with a dog that sexually assaults you.

Some back story: Mrs. ACW and I were doing some food shopping over the holidays and we opted to shop in a county with a higher-than-average tax bracket. The produce tends to be fresher, and the selection tends to be greater, and none of the cashiers are surly teenagers who lack the ability to add. The downside to all this is that the other shoppers have huge superiority complexes, entitlement issues, and feel that the world is owed to them, so they’ll frequently crash their carts into yours, fall down, and call triple A. Before you know what’s happening, you’ve been summoned to court to serve as a witness against yourself. Also, because these places tend to be whiter than a whitebread and mayonnaise sandwich, the “International Foods” aisle is typically Italian fare like spaghetti and pasta sauce. Occasionally you might find an old dusty box of taco shells that people keep buying to impress their house cleaner, and then returning the tacos after they fire the house cleaner. I imagine that most people in that area have owned those tacos for a day or two at least once. Suffice it to say, Mrs. ACW and I were not able to find the canned chipotle peppers on our list.

However, what they lack in diverse foods, they make up for in a new kind of eggnog. As we were wandering the aisles and gazing upon row after row of jarred peacock in truffle oil and ivory shavings, canned polar bear toes, and freeze-dried Irish babies, we came across the bottle of nog pictured above… and it cost $11. This makes it the most expensive nog purchase in my history of nogsumerism. Mrs. ACW looked at my joyful face, the price tag, and simply said, “That had better be some good fucking eggnog.” As you may have already surmised, it was not.

As soon as we got home I wanted to bust it open so I could try some, and since it was an eggnog cocktail concentrate, I would need to mix it with milk or liquor, sort of like the chai nog. So I mixed some up with some milk and took a sip… and it was weird. It tasted like the milk had gone bad or something. There was this weird biscotti-like taste to the nog. So I dumped in some bourbon… but that taste was still there. I dumped in even more bourbon and even more milk, but the horrible taste couldn’t be squelched. Mind you, the original recipe calls for 2 parts nog to 1 part milk OR liquor, and I was at about 4 parts milk AND bourbon to 1 part nog. It was like a party in my mouth and everybody had the trots.

For YOU people I went back and tried the filthy shit again before writing this post, and I was finally able to put my finger on what the taste was: licorice. It was like drinking eggnog through a straw made of black licorice. It’s absolutely repulsive, and I’m not sure what makes it taste that way, but when you can add so much booze and milk and the licorice flavor still comes through… well, I’d say we have a problem.

Then again, I also hate that shitty pre-liquored nog that you can buy, and I know lots of people who love it, so it might just be me in this case. Either way, I’ll never drink it again, and maybe it’ll save you about 11 bucks. And having to learn what it’s like to be hit in the face with a sack of warm diarrhea.

Until next year, thus ends the nog diaries. Like Sex in the City, but with less lactose intolerance.

Incidentally, eggnog made from Olympians is called Nogbrosia

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 11, 2008 @ 10:57 am
in awesome, bitches, food, i am so fucking awesome, nog, potty humor and sex
. 6 Comments

Jeezy Creezy!* Sometimes I think YOU people are more obsessed with the nog than I am. You people are all like, “Hey, why don’t you blog about eggnog?” or “Hey, maybe some nog-blogging would make you feel better.” or “You should have an eggnog enema and tell us about it while I try to type with one hand.” Seriously. You need to relax about the nog. What are you going to do when the nogbloggery ceases for the next 10 months? Worse still, what are you going to do when I shutter the site? I can see it now… I’ll log in to check the gmail account every few weeks and it’ll be full of messages like, “Hey, just thinking that you might want to come back to blog about this horrible eggnog I found that’s made with platypus eggs.” or “Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to try to drink a gallon of eggnog without throwing up and then throw up and then post the whole thing on Youtube.” or “Hey, still waiting one-handed for that eggnog enema you cocktease.”

For reals, B, y’all need to relax. It can’t all be about nog all the time. You know how that one time somebody gave you that pointless thing, like the tea-cozy with the rooster on it? Or the Raggedy Anne doll? Or the towel with the watermelon slices on it? And you were like, “Oh, hey, yeah that’s cool, I guess,” and didn’t immediately shit on it/in it and then set it on fire? And then for every Christmas, birthday, anniversary, going away present, high-school graduation, and bar mitzvah you got another thing with a rooster on it, or Raggedy Anne, or watermelon slices? And then when people come over to your house they’re like, “Whoa you must really be into roosters/Raggedy Anne/watermelon.” And the situation is thusly compounded and becomes exponentially worse as everyone you know continues to give you this shit in which you were only mildly interested in the first place? And your house is just filling with this shit and you can’t throw any of it away because people keep giving it to you and it’s impolite to throw away gifts? And with each birthday you’re torn between making a wish on the candles that you could travel back in time and piss in the face of the first person who ever gave you that shit or wishing that a giant bear would burst through the door at that moment and maul the bejeezus out of you so you won’t have to open one more gift with roosters/Raggedy Anne/watermelon? Do you know what I’m talking about?

Well, just apply that to me and nog… and you’d be totally fucking wrong. I want to drink nog ALL year. That’s why I freeze a bottle of it so I can drink it in July, or for my birthday in September. Nothing quenches a hot, summer thirst like a thick, creamy beverage made from milk and eggs. Gatorade is for bitches. Eggnog is for Olympians.

eggnog frozen

As you can see here my freezer nog is comfortably nestled between the Italian Ice and the mystery container of spaghetti sauce that could potentially be from when I lived with Kmart.

In fact, as you can see in this picture:

eggnog frozen 2

the freezer nog has already reached it’s full, bloated, frozen potential, and is testing the limits of it’s quart-sized plastic prison.

So you psycho nog-loving wannabes, you’ll never be able to hang with me until you’ve reached my paramount of obsession, my apotheosis of nog-suckling greatness. At this point to even come CLOSE to loving nog as much as me, I’d pretty much have to catch you balls deep in a carton of nog, and though many of you are perverted beyond psychological help, I still don’t think you like nog THAT much. Suckers.

So yeah, I have one more nog post for you until I ingest the summernog, and then that’s it. For you people I will break my tradition of not blogging on the weekends and write something up so it’ll be there on Monday when I’m out of the office. I hope you’re happy.

*Skip to 4:30 if you don’t immediately get that.

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