Archive for the 'bitches' Category

Gas (with only one fart joke)

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 12, 2008 @ 9:58 am
in POS Tercel, bitches, driving, potty humor and sex
. 3 Comments

My shitty, shitty car (which is still for sale by the way! It gets great mileage!) tends to fog up like I’m driving around with a back seat full of half-naked teenagers drunk on grain-alcohol and energy drinks whenever it rains, so it’s essential to run the AC to clear up the windows. But my car is the model of Japanese efficiency, so engine power is sacrificed in favor of the AC running. 94 horsepower drops to what feels to be about 60 horsepower, and the normally very economical fuel consumption of about 30+ miles per gallon feels like it drops to about 25 or so. Point being, whenever I want to run the AC, I instinctively check the gas gauge to see if the luxury of conditioned air is something I can afford.

This morning, with the needle on the fuel gauge looking like it was fellating the lowest line in the letter “E”, I realized that AC was a luxury I couldn’t afford, but needed desperately. So I pulled into the first gas station I saw on my way to work and parked next to the first empty pump.

I popped my credit card in the card reader, removed it, and waited. I checked the display and it said, “Please remove credit card”. That was odd as the credit card had been removed. It was in my hand. So I swiped the card again, and again I got the same problem. I mashed a bunch of buttons until the request was canceled and then got back into my car and drove to another pump.

The next pump I pulled up to was broken, as was the next one after that. Finally I just got in line behind someone who was already pumping gas, figuring that if they would be able to use the pump, so would I. I waited and waited. And waited and waited and waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. Then I finally realized that there was no one in the fucking car in front of me. The douchewhistler had apparently started pumping gas and then wandered into the mini-mart to acquire packaged pork snacks to help sustain a day-long siege against the olfactory systems of their coworkers.

So I pulled up to another pump, went through the whole fucking tap dance again with the fucking machine, and left, having spent half an hour accomplishing exactly nothing.

I pulled up at the next gas station a little further down the road, and because gas was 2 cents more expensive there than at the previous place, the station was completely empty. The card reader worked like a fucking charm, and within a few minutes I was back on the road, defogging the ever-loving crap out of my windshield.

Now you can decide if you want to ever watch a movie with me

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 5, 2008 @ 10:34 am
in bitches, movies, ocd and people are idiots
. 25 Comments

This past weekend I went to see Iron Man with some friends and despite every intention I had to have a good time, it was not meant to be so.

Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed the movie. It’s not going to win any awards or change the way movies are made, but it was an enjoyable comic book movie that didn’t take itself to seriously (I’m looking at you Superman Returns) or play things too stupidly (I’m looking at you Fantastic Four, specifically the vapid performance by Jessica Alba). It was just fun. One of us commented that it could have used more punching and explosions, and while that certainly wouldn’t have hurt things, I feel it is important to say I enjoyed it the way it was.

What really bothered me was the coterie of douchebags seated behind us.

Throughout the entire movie they were ridiculously irritating. They’d talk and make stupid jokes just until the point where I was ready to stand up and tell them to shut the fuck up when they’d clam up for a while. They’d throw popcorn at each other (or us. I’m not sure, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt) and I’d get hit a few times and wait for the next piece to hit me before getting up to tell them to stop throwing shit, but that piece would never come. The entire movie went that way. Five minutes of irritation every 15 minutes for 126 minutes. It was absolutely maddening.

It also didn’t help that the idiot man-child in front of me kept saying “boom” right before anything would explode, but his daughters were elbowing him in the ribs for that, so it was kept to a minimum.

(I’ve mentioned before about how OCD I am about movies, and you can read this if you want an extremely long digression.)

On the way out of the movie two members of our group went to the bathroom while my brother and I waited in the lobby. Outside I could see the dozen or so 14-year-olds, all with shit eating grins, carrying on and generally being awkward pubescent assfaces.

I wasn’t sure if they were the ones who had been such amazing dicks during the movie, but I didn’t see any other teenage groups in the theater with us, so I was pretty sure it was them. Despite that I was again willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and allow bygones to be bygones.

That is, until we were outside and one of the shrivel-dicks leaned toward me and said, “Yeah! Iron Man rocked, right guys?” at which point I lost it.

I was a ball of pure unbridled OCD rage and I was focusing my hate on the prick that had been unlucky enough to speak up. I’m not sure what I exactly said, but I’m told I called them all “cockbags” before getting in the face of the loudmouth. He kept backing away as I kept walking toward him, and I remember saying something along the lines of, “You little fuckers think you’re fucking funny? You like to throw shit and ruin the movie for everyone else you little piece of shit?”

Then one of the other kids told me to calm down so I got up in his face and started asking him the most ridiculous question I could think of:

“What’s your name you little shit?”
“What?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Nothing.”
“What’s your fucking name?”
“Uh… Joe.”
“Fuck you.”

Then I stepped towards him, he flinched, and I knew I had done enough. Or possibly too much. I’m still not sure. I never touched any of them, and I never would have, but I was still really fucking pissed. Then I remembered I had a bag of M&Ms in my pocket.

“You little fuckers think it’s funny to throw candy? Huh? You think that’s funny? Yeah, it’s real fucking funny. Let’s see how you like it.”

And I threw a huge handful of candy at them that I had been gathering into my hands as I was talking to them. I only hit 3 or 4 of them with the candy, but that was enough. I was done with them at that point.

I walked over to my friends and we started walking to the car. Once we were far enough away they started to laugh, and I could tell it was false bravado, but at that point I didn’t care what they were doing.

In retrospect I’m still not sure it’s something I would have done again in the same situation, but at the very least I hope the little shitfucks learn that if you irritate the wrong person at the movies, it could come back to bite you in the ass. Or throw candy in your face, in this case.

In retrospect it really wasn’t all that bad

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on April 18, 2008 @ 7:54 am
in atheism!, bitches, driving, jesus is fo' shizzle, people are idiots, travel and work
. 16 Comments

Hey did you see the head Italian child-raper was in DC yesterday? Yeah, it was totally awesome how all of his douchebag followers filled the city with their idiocy on the same day I had to drive to a meeting in Alexandria.

Actually, it was partially my fault. I should have given a wide berth to all the cars I saw that had bumper stickers that said, “God is my copilot” or “God is my pilot” or “Apparently God is a fucking douchebag of a driver and I’m a lobotomized asshole who will do anything a highly edited and poorly translated book of fairy tales tells me to do because I clearly have no idea how to fucking operate an automobile and neither does my pie-in-the-sky deity-of-choice”.

I really should have avoided every one of those goddamned be-Jesus-fished hate-moblies because the little magnetic fish pretty much acted as a warning sign for “watch out because I’m merging without signaling or checking my rear view” or “Der, what’s a steering wheel? Why isn’t Jeebus driving for me? I’m hungry. I need a new diaper. I wish I was watching Steve Wilkos right now.” or “I’m driving 5 miles per hour on the highway because I’m a fucking douchebag cocksmoker child-rapist-forgiving shitfuck dick-spinning turd-swallower and traffic scares me”.

So yeah, if you couldn’t tell by my tone, it was pretty much 40 miles of concentrated awesomeness on the way to DC. I finally got to my meeting, 30 minutes late because of those holy-roller nipple-twisters, and then later on the day looked like it might even be salvageable as the temperature increased to mild summer temperature ranges.

And when we jumped on 395 to head home we weren’t faced with nearly the volume of purified idiotic assholery that we had to steer through on our way down…

because they were all waiting for us on 295 north.

I swear, my next car is going to be a tank with a giant drill on the front so I can bore my way over or through those malevolent fuckwads who think it’s just fucking SUPER to get on the road during rush hour so they can see their high-grand-eagle do a cross burning at the local stadium, and my fucking death car of Righteous Fucking Justice Dispatched DailyTM will have an articulated arm with a branding iron on the end of it so I can stamp all the cheese-dicks in the middle of their fucking foreheads with the words “I’m a shitty fucking douchebag numbnuts dumbfuck of a driver and you should punch me in the nuts or ovaries right fucking now because I deserve it for being a fucking asshole and you should sterilize me too,” and I’ll have a quadraphonic sound system mounted on the roof constantly repeating “You are a shitty driver. Kill yourself” and I’ll be able to focus that shit at those fucks and turn the fucker all the way to 11 and watch the blood trickle out of their ears as for ONCE I am able to make my way down the road unimpeded.

Now I’m able to go out and enjoy some serious cock, guilt free.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on April 11, 2008 @ 10:08 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, devil cat, jokes, people are idiots, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 15 Comments

1) I was just recently contacted by somebody at bthesite.com (which doesn’t seem to be working as of this being written) about how they had grabbed my RSS and were posting my content onto their site. That’s totally fine with me. Blogtimore has been doing it for years. But nobody at Blogtimore cares if I put the word “cock” in the title of my blog posts for all the world to see. I’m pretty sure they also don’t mind “fisting” or “felching” or “transexual cornholing santorum lickers”, but we’ll see if bthesite minds. And just to be clear, I grabbed the title from this episode of Extras:

Skip to the one minute mark if you’re in a hurry.

2) Since we’ve switched Sherlock to a new cat food that’s supposed to keep his wee-wee wiener-friendly, rather than full of sharp and jagged crystals stabbing him with their jags, his shit has become even more offensive. And I don’t mean “offensive” like people thought Andrew Dice Clay was offensive but was really only just kind-of funny unless you were a fat guy with a porno mustache, gold chain, stupid haircut, and a bad sweater, and 2 years of a high-school education who lived in New Jersey in the late 80’s and never got any action but still lied to his friends that he did, because those guys thought he was hilarious. No, I mean offensive like Yankee Candle Company’s new scent is “Hangover Shits” crafted specifically after extensively researching the nostril singing aromas of two pitchers of Miller Lite and 50 nuclear chicken wings digested and excreted through the human body, and it’s your birthday and everybody gives you one of those candles.

3) Speaking of offensive aromas, the other day Mrs. ACW and I were at the Annapolis Mall and I suddenly got a whiff of hypersexualized teenage desperation and the triumph of money over taste. “Wow, did we just walk past a perfume store? They must have spilled something.”
“I guess so.”

But then as we kept walking the stink became more palpable, until I could actually reach out an palp it. It was then that I noticed we were beginning to approach the area of the mall that housed the Abercrombie and Fitch store. We weren’t even at the store yet and I was already gagging. Seriously, look at this map. The arrow is A&F and we were at the red dot to the left of JCPenney when we started smelling the horrible smell.

We went on to Nordstrom so Mrs. ACW could look at purses or tampons or nipple-clamps or whatever it is that women look at when they go shopping (I don’t know, I usually turn my brain off), and after finding what she was looking for (or not, I don’t really know) we left to go back into the mall and it was as if I was just punched in the face with the smell of Dawson’s Creek were tv shows to have their own scents.

This time we had to pass the stink-factory on the near side, and it was so overpowering that I covered my face with my hoodie and did the best I could to control the gag reflex while my eyes watered. I wondered how people could even work in there. Do the clothes in there come pre-scented or something? Uggh. It was horrible.

But walking past the store wasn’t even the worst of it! Three hours later I still smelled like I was a non-consensual participant in a boy-band gang-bang, and nothing I did would make the stink come off me. It was like I looked normal, but my shadow was a collar-popping douchebag who bathed in shitty cologne.

Steak and Cheese Lean Pockets, is there anything you can’t do?

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on April 2, 2008 @ 9:25 am
in bitches, food, jokes, money, music, people are idiots and potty humor
. 9 Comments

First of all, I’m surprised I fooled so many of you yesterday. I’m a huge liar. You know this. I’m almost constantly lying. How can you tell if I’m lying? Well, you can’t. It’s because I’m sometimes telling the truth that I’m an even more effective liar. But really, you should have known.

That said, here’s a relatively truthful story about what happened to me yesterday.

I mentioned a while back that I’d be sampling beef and cheese lean pockets. And as a quick summary, beef is to me as a shotgun is to Kurt Cobain. Too soon?

Anyway, I quickly realized that the most punishing aspect of the focus group would not be the lean pockets, but would instead be my fellow focus group attendees. Their brain powers combined would barely qualify them to watch Dora the Explorer. I can see the group of them now, sitting in front of a television, three of them wetting their pants out of fear of the talking picture box.

We were given four whole lean pockets, one at a time, and told to eat as much as we could to get an accurate sample. As usual, I was doing my damnedest to mess with the results.

I was right in the middle of the group, so whenever the group leader would ask for opinions, I would listen carefully to what the other folks had to say (which I learned quickly was a pointless endeavor) before saying something completely opposite, and bringing up something out of left field.

For example, after tasting the first lean pocket, the comments went like this. See if you can guess which one is mine:

“The meat is too hard? Like, I think it should be softer? Like, not as hard? But more soft?”

“I like this one because it doesn’t taste like pizza.”

“Need more meat. More meat.”

“The cheese is too stringy. I like cheese to be stringy, but not really stringy, just a little stringy. But it was good. I loved it.”

“This doesn’t taste like a Philly Cheesesteak. I did not like it.”

“Did you put mayonnaise in these things somehow? I think I caught some mayonnaise in there. Oh god, I hope it was mayonnaise.”

“The beef is too pink.”

And finally, “This tastes like rubber.”

To which the group leader responded, “Tastes like rubber, or has the texture of rubber.”

“Oh, the texture. … And the taste.” I don’t think that participant knew what the word “texture” meant.

And so the taste test went on like that, my brain cells throwing themselves against the insides of my skull in a desperate attempt to escape the rampant, unbridled stupidity. I swear, if they could bottle stupidity like that, it would become a dangerous, dangerous weapon. Can you imagine all that concentrated stupid being used to wipe out the intellect of an entire country? They could probably call it American Idol or Dancing with the Stars. But I digress.

The one thing that kept me sane the whole time was the near constant supply of hilarious “that’s what she said” jokes running through my head. Almost anytime anyone said anything, it was funny. Just try it with the samples from above. I’ll wait.

But I don’t care what they say
I’m in love with you
They try to pull me away
But they don’t know the truth
My heart’s crippled by the vein
That I keep on closing
You cut me open and I
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love

Oh good, you’re back. What a terrible song. Anyway, you can see the potential for hilarity was high, and I was almost fooled into thinking the funniness would outweigh the bone-shattering, mind-crippling dumbness, but every time I would think the dumbness was over, one of the participants would say something like this:

“My favorite cheese is gouda, but I can’t ever find in anywhere.”

I wanted to smack her and say, “Really? Really? You can’t find gouda? That’s funny because I’ve seen gouda in every grocery store I’ve ever been to in my life. Ever. It’s not a fancy cheese. You get it in those shitty fucking Christmas meat and cheese gift baskets that are nice enough to say, ‘I was thinking of you’ but not nice enough to say ‘for more than twelve seconds’. I hate you. You’re an idiot.”

Eventually the session ended, we headed back out to the lobby at the front of the building, and we were given our compensation in the form of a check. Ten seconds later, my ass turned into a Howitzer and I pretended their toilet was the Luftwaffe as I launched a mighty blitzkrieg- hellbent on porcelain annihilation.

Wow. That was a lot of confusing war/feces/Nazi metaphors at the end there.

Of popped-collars and douchebags

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 31, 2008 @ 9:46 am
in Glen Burnie, Mrs. ACW, beer, bitches, devil cat, house, money, people are idiots and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 9 Comments

Saturday morning I woke at the crack of 11am to wrestle my cat to the ground before Mrs. ACW gave him his medicine. And by “medicine” I mean a savage beating. And by “a savage beating” I mean the anti-biotics that are supposed to be degunking his pee-maker.

Because I’m a cheapskate I opened the curtains rather than turning on the lights, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a car full of early-twenties popped-collar douchebags parking across the street from my house. The three of them got out of their late model E-class Mercedes featuring 18-inch z-rated tires and chrome rims. As would any rational person, I immediately hated them.

A few minutes later they returned to the car, opened the trunk, and got out a thirty-pack of Keystone Light and a white trash bag full of assorted swill. I wanted to burst out of my house, run into the street, and beat them to death with their canoe beer* and then take a dump on the hood of their car.

Given their beer choices, I was clearly witnessing the triumph of money over taste. I decided that life was too short to waste any more time on thinking about them, mentally wished them a happy afternoon pickling their livers, and went about my day.

Later that day Mrs. ACW and I left to go over my brother’s house to finish our taxes, and from there we went to see a play our friend is in.** After the play we went out for drinks with some of the cast, so we didn’t get home until about 2am.

As we were pulling into our driveway I noticed that someone had left the visor down in the Mercedes, and the lights on the visor were burning brightly, and looked like they would be doing so all night. And then next morning my theory proved to be correct. There was a tow-truck parked in front of the Mercedes, but alas, no popped-collar douchebag.

Eventually the tow truck left and the popped-collar douchebag emerged, and I have to admit that my level of schaudenfreude was so high that it was almost able to manifest itself physically. I was wandering around the house sneering at the thought of this douchebag having to pay out the nose to have his car towed just to be told that he had a dead battery and one of his idiot popped-collar douchebag friends could have given him a jump. The darkest part of my soul was giving birth to bitterness incarnate.

Then the better part of me thought, “It’s not his fault he’s a complete and utter douchebag with all the fashion sense of Meghan McCain. I’ll go give him a jump.”

Before I could go get him another tow truck came back, hauled his car up onto back of the truck, and drove away.

Oh well. At least I tried to do the right thing, even if it took a few hours. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s still a collar-popping douchebag that drinks shitty beer and has more money than taste, so maybe I’m still glad I didn’t help him.

*Drinking beer like Miller Lite, Bud Light, Keystone, Milwaukee’s Best Light, etc. is like making love in a canoe. Fucking close to water.

**Shameless plug. This play was hilarious, and our friend is in it, so if you’re looking for something to do, this is a cheap and highly-amusing way to fill your time.

In addition to my car, I’m also selling two cats

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 27, 2008 @ 10:17 am
in bitches and devil cat
. 17 Comments

My stupid douchebag cats are still out to ruin my life, both of them in their own particular way.

Sherlock’s babymaker is all corked up with some kind of UTI, so he’s been crabby because he can’t pee like normal. And that sucks for him. But you know what sucks worse? Having to sneak up on him with a blanket like some sort of not-at-all elite commando from the bedding department at JCPenney, tackle him, wrap him up so that his head is exposed but his horrible claws are not, and then force his mouth open to give him an antibiotic that will hopefully pop the aforementioned cork. Twice a day. Actually, the worst part about it is the smell of the antibiotic. It smells like bubble gum. It’s horrible. I want to know what the train of thought was when the doctors schemed out that terrible idea.

“Hey, we need to flavor this antibiotic with something so that little kids will take it. Right now it’s flavorless, so what do you think of a Liver and Onion flavor?”

“No! That’s all wrong! You need it to taste like something that kids like. How about farts and a cactus?”

“Great idea! But maybe it should be something more like candy.”

“I’ve got it! Bubble gum! And not just any gum, but that shitty kind of gum that loses all its flavor between unwrapping it and your first chew.”

“Excellent! And because cats are just like little children but with more fur and sharper teeth, we’ll just make it taste like gum for them too. Because I’m pretty sure I once read that a cat was gum’s only natural predator.”

“I think I read that too. I think that’s a job well done on our part. Want to go back to making meth now?”

“Yes. Let’s.”

Anyway, back to the two horrible crap-factories that I call my cats. And really, when you think about it, that’s all pets are. They’re just a long, complicated, smelly process of turning your money into shit. Shit that you have to clean up. Think about that for a minute. We’re turning our money into shit AND we have to clean the shit up. What a fucking scam.

Wookie, apparently cognizant of the fact that Sherlock has been providing us with no end of wallet-hemorrhaging due to repeated trips to the vet, is working very hard at destroying our sanity. Every morning she’s been pawing at the sliding glass doors to the shower so that they bang and clatter together. It was infuriating when she’d do it 10 minutes before I needed to be out of bed, but it was especially infuriating this morning when she did it at 4:30. And the worst part is that she’s too smart to be reprimanded.

By the time I get out of bed to stuff my foot up her ass she’s out of the bathroom, down the hall, and around the corner. By the time I get to the bathroom door to close it and keep her out for the remainder of my sleep time she’s sauntering around the corner like she’s the pudgy, four-legged Queen of fucking Sheba, looking up at me as if to say, “Oh, you’re awake. How fortunate. You can feed me while you’re up.”

This is usually where I look at her and sleepily mumble, “You can go fuck yourself you little fucking communist piece of fucking shit.” Look, I don’t know why she’s a communist. It’s just something I say. This is the second time she’s fucked around with the shower doors. There will not be a third time.

Well, I guess there will be a third time, but then immediately after that there will be a flying cat and pit of hungry alligators. And then after THAT there will be an period of very restful, uninterrupted sleep.

You’re just a woman with a small brain. With a brain a third the size of us. It’s science.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 19, 2008 @ 9:45 am
in bitches, driving and people are idiots
. 15 Comments

I’m of two minds regarding the potential ban on using a cell phone while driving in Maryland. On the one hand, I think the research is pretty clear that any time a distraction is added to driving, the likelihood of an accident increases. On the other hand, like the radio, or a soda, I think there are ways that the cell phone can be used safely while driving. The problem is, no matter whether the law is passed or not, my life will be continually made miserable by dumbfucking assholes who seem to see no problem with driving while their cranium is lodged deep within the murky confines of their colons.

Sure, we all know somebody who can drive, shift gears, smoke, eat, drink coffee, read the paper, and change the radio station while commuting to and from work everyday. Those people are not representative of the rest of the idiots out on the road. I can’t even begin to effectively elaborate how many times my attempt to get from point A to point B has been stymied by some cock-noshing shitburger face-fucking a greasy fast-food sandwich and cradling a cell phone between their shoulder and their ear. I have no idea why they insist on doing this while driving, because I can easily tell from the look of them that not only do they have nowhere to go, but even when they get there, no one will want them to stay.

My best guess using science* would be that because humankind has almost completely eliminated evolution by virtue of mountains of pharmaceuticals that fix everything from the tip of one’s flaccid penis to the business end of one’s explosive asshole, they only way left to eliminate the weak is to allow them to exercise their idiocy in every possible form.

Which brings us back to the cell phone thing. Part of me wants to not see cell phones banned, because eventually they will remove themselves from the gene pool through their rampant and unchecked dumbfuckery, and after a few generations we won’t have to hear people giddily clapping because someone built a new Applebee’s across the street from the old Applebee’s. Also, my brain would pretty much explode because even if someone passed a law, the fuckin’ dumb-dumbs would still talk while driving, and then I’d have another thing to be pissed-off about while they make U-turns in one way streets without signaling, going either 10 miles under or 30 miles over the speed limit. Jesus fucking wept, I’m getting crotch-punchingly angry just thinking about it.

On the other hand, if they did pass a law banning the use of cell phones while driving, maybe I’d get a lighter sentence when I dragged them from the vehicle they use as their enormous four-wheeled living rooms and choke them to death with their collection of Larry the Cable Guy DVDs that they insist on watching while they drive from Dairy Queen to Walmart in a seemingly endless loop of mindless gluttony and appalling lack of a sense of humor.

Either way, I’m mounting rockets on the roof of my car.

*You know, that “s” word that explains all that different crap.

Movie reviews, cat vomit, and fish

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 10, 2008 @ 10:36 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, bitches, devil cat, family and nerd stuff
. 16 Comments

1) This weekend I went over to my brother’s house so we, along with my younger brother, could work on a birthday present for my mom’s 60th. My niece had just finished watching episodes 4, 5, and half of 6 of Star Wars. I took a break from working on the present to play with her, and I was asking her to find different characters among the toys scattered on the floor, and she was able to easily find Princess Leia, Chewbacca, Han Solo, Darth Vader, and Yoda without any trouble. She was babbling incessantly about Darth Vader and Chewbacca, holding them by their legs and flying them through the air, eventually tucking Darth Vader under her arm and picking up a TIE Fighter while making flying sounds. I obliged by picking up the Millennium Falcon and chasing her with it. She seemed to really be getting a kick out of the whole Star Wars thing, so I asked her, “Did you really like the Star Wars movies?” and she kind of shrugged and said, “They were okay.”

2) The good cat, Wookie, woke us up early on Daylight Savings morning by yarfing her breakfast all over my jacket. It actually cleaned up so quickly and easily that I was tempted to not throw it in the washer, until I picked it up and noticed the distinct bouquet of half-digested kibbles and cat-innards. Into the wash it went.

3) Mrs. ACW recently bought a fish for her pre-school class. After much in-fighting, wheedling, consternation, back-stabbing, and compromise, they came up with this list of names:

-Chomp
-Dolphin
-Humpback Whale
-TV
-Spongebob
-Daddy (kind of really weird)
-Rocky
-Rainbow
-Orange (The fish is blue and red)
-Troy (from high school musical, I am told)
-Mr. Fish

and her favorites,

-Mr. Nachos (a close second, and if that one dies or they get a second
fish, that’s going to be his name)

-Spider-man (The name they picked)

I hereby decree that all pets shall be henceforth and forthwith named by preschoolers.

More from the funeral home

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 4, 2008 @ 9:39 am
in bitches, family, money and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 23 Comments

One would hope, at this point, that the anger would have diminished somewhat, and I guess it has, but not quite as much as I would have liked, due primarily to the ineptitude of the staff at the funeral home.

On Thursday my family prepared for two 2-hour viewings of my grandfather from 3-5 p.m. and 7-9 p.m. Our family was invited to show up early because my aunt was having a really hard time with the whole thing, and wanted extra time to personally spend with my grandfather without a bunch of other people around. Upon arrival at two o’clock we were happy to see that the lights in the funeral home were on. There had been some power outages in the area, so we were worried about the lights at the funeral home. Before we arrived the funeral home assured my family that they had candles placed around the room and that it would be “dim”.

While my aunt drifted over to be with my grandfather, the rest of us gathered around a television to watch a slide show I had created from old pictures that my brother had scanned in. I had used iMovie and applied a liberal usage of the Ken Burns effect, and everybody seemed pretty happy with the result. Then, at 2:10 p.m., the lights went out.

“Dim” does not begin to describe the situation. Like many funeral homes, this one did not have any windows in the actual viewing room, so our room was lit by indirect ambient light from the front doors, two battery powered emergency lights, and about 6 or 7 small candles.

At 2:30 the emergency lights went out, so all we had were candles and the ambient light. If you think funeral homes are creepy, you should try hanging out in one with all the lights out. Finally the good will of my family broke, and one of my other aunts approached the funeral director.

“The lights have been out for 20 minutes. What is you back-up plan?”
“Well, the power is out in the area, and we can’t really control that.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Do you have a back-up plan for this type of situation?”
“No.”

Having just lost her father, my aunt didn’t have the energy to fight, so she found my brothers and me. My older brother and I approached the funeral director and asked what he was going to do. It took all I had to not punch him when he said there was nothing he could do. My older brother said, “No, that is not acceptable. You need to go buy a generator and get the lights on in this room. Now.” He said he would have to ask his manager, and while he disappeared we conferred about what we would do depending on when the lights came back on. We agreed that we’d ask for $1200 if the lights weren’t back on by the end of the first viewing, $2400 if they weren’t back on by the beginning of the second viewing, and $3200 if they were still off by the end of the second viewing. The price was based on what we paid for the viewing, and then we doubled it, that way even if we only got 50% of what we asked, we’d still get a full refund. We suspected they were keeping their fingers crossed that the power would come back on and wouldn’t have to shell out for a generator.

While we were waiting they lit a friggin’ oil lamp and placed it by the casket. Aside from the horrible odor, we had nothing to worry about except for the oil lamp tipping over and setting the whole room on fire. When the oil lamp started to fade they balanced a flashlight on the same table and pointed it at my grandfather. I can’t even begin to find the words to describe how infuriated I was to see my grandfather like that. Also, please keep in mind that the rest of the room was still dark, still lit only by a few flickering candles.

Finally at 3:41 p.m. a generator was connected to lights by the casket. At least anyone who wanted to see my grandfather wouldn’t feel like they were in a third-rate haunted house. The odd thing is, though, that lights in the hallway and in the other viewing rooms were on. As far as I could tell, ours was the only room in the whole place that was still dark. I’m not sure what that was about, but it didn’t help matter to see other rooms brightly lit when ours was still dark.

At 4:23 p.m. full power was restored to the building. Our room was completely lit, and for the next 35 minutes we were able view the slide show and have conversations with our family and friends without having to use candle light or a flash light.

The way I figure it, we were without power for 143 minutes out of a possible 180 minutes, amounting to almost 80% of the time we were there. I think were entitled to at least 80% of a refund for the viewings, if not more. It’s not like we can have another viewing next week. That was it. That was the only time we had. The stress and discomfort of spending so much of that time in the dark physically manifested itself in my relatives.

I’m not quite ready to say exactly where this happened, depending on how the bill is settled, but I’ll let you know what happens. Also, to prove I shouldn’t play the lottery any time soon, my dad’s uncle died on Sunday. I wasn’t close to him at all, and am not really sure if I ever even met him, but I’m pretty sure that my dad is beyond exhausted. A sister, father-in-law, and uncle within three weeks is un-fucking-real and I’m not sure that anyone should ever have to deal with that.

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