Sorry, best I could do, title-wise. Tough week at the office. On the plus tip, it does at least have it a smidge of relevance.
I'm pretty damn excited about these new 'racy' pictures of Britney Spears in a church confessional. Nope, not for the obvious, seen it before. Simply because it allows me to coin me a new term: Madonna-be (Songs of the Day: Spice Girls- Wannabe; Madonna- Like A Prayer (Extended Dance Remix). Didn't Madonna do this shit, like, twenty years ago? And better?
Like the platinum one says, Hey Britney, I'd rather see you bare your...Well, she goes with soul on this one. Me, not so much. What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic.
So, watching last night's kinda gripping installment of Reaper, a question arose: hey, hotshot (to drop some Speed on y'all), the Devil invites you out for a night on the town, with talk of a limo. What do you do?
To briefly, you know, summarize: I'm down with god, but the Devil's got better drugs. And don't even get me started on the bitches.
I'm entirely convinced that Lila, Dexter's Narcotics Anonymous sponsor on the awesome show of the same name, has already and will continue to provide the motivation for numerous folks to join said program. Me, I'm damn near at the point wherefore I'm ready to become me an addict, just so's I can join NA in the hopes of getting such a fine and interesting sponsor.
But that's just me.
A new Tila Tequila (=traffic) reality show? Where she selects from prospective male AND female suitors? Where do I sign up? Nope, even then, even if I were ON a fucking reality show, I still wouldn't watch one.
I'm still in heavy turmoil over Paris Hilton's charity mission to Africa being postponed. I truly, madly, deeply, with all my heart (the one in my chest, not the one inked on my arm) believe that Saint Paris of Simple can make a real difference therein. She is, after all, renowned world wide for her humanitarian efforts. Oh, no, wait, my bad. I believe she had some sort of art film a while back.
I can just see it now (but still won't watch it): The Simple Life XXX (or whatever number they're up to now; I happen to like this one, plus the Roman numerals give it that added touch of dignity it so richly deserves, n'est pas?)- Paris in Africa.
You know, just when one starts to feel the world a desolate place, something like this comes along and renews your Faith in mankind. Why, yes, I'm still developing my sarcasm, thanks for noticing.
Be the first on your block to get the new limited edition Dale Earnhardt Sharpie!
The fuck do felt pens have to do with auto racing? It really IS true that them NASCAR following, reality show watching, hood wearing inbred yokels really WILL buy anyfucking thing associated with their beloved NASCAR. Note to self: buy NASCAR stock.
Although, I'll be the first to admit that I do enjoy me the smooth writing capabilities of a Sharpie in my day to day. However, I also enjoy throwing me some rocks, glass crib and all.
Nope, don't watch NASCAR, either.
I would, however, watch me some NASCARGOT. There's just something so very RIGHT about snail racing. Mint juleps. Hot girls-next-door in pretty summer frocks with big hats. And no panties. The roar of the crowd. The thrill of the chase. Gunfire. Screams.
Oops, I Did it Again. Wrong story. Besides, my storytelling skills need some work. But I'll do it. I am, after all, getting back to basics. Rediscovering the fundamentals and my love of the Game.
I realized the other night that I rarely waste time pining away for my fair neighbor, Kendra, anymore. Even after I got ''do you think we're becoming too predictable?'' from someone special. Any womenfolks out there in the ether will know what this, along with the ever popular ''are you happy?'' truly signifies. Maybe I really am growing. Either that or I'm simply too beat down and fucked up by my career mistake.
I do, however, have it in writing (or at least an e-mail) from some corporate bigwig that I now allegedly only have to work 40 hours a week. Instead of the 60+ I've been devoting to beating my head against the writing on the wall, burning the candle at both ends and working my merry way into an early grave. Yay, me! This meant that, when my new boss (whom I dreamed of last night; nope, not that kind, I only dream that way about YOU...and your moms) asked me yesterday whyfore I'd skipped an important (to likely all but, you know, ME) meeting the day before; I was able to tell her ''because I'd already been here 12 hours.'' No explanation. No supplication. No nothing. That's simply the way it is, deal. Or not. Whatever. And she told me she could respect that.
Of course, I always say that if they don't think I'm pulling my weight; what with the 60 hour weeks and the fact that my department does $600000+ in sales each week, they're more than free to sign the papers and let me transfer to another department. Or store. My bags are packed and I KNOW I could get me another, less wasting my life-type gig, before day's end.
So we have many many way too fucking MANY newbies on my night crew. And, of late, I've been saddled with training some. Me. Mr. Patience, Tolerance, The Milk of Human Kindness and all that good shit. Needless to say, it hasn't been going well. Even with the ones that can actually speak AND read English, few and far between though they are.
And then, there's my man Jordan. Upon first contact, he seemed a decent, perhaps even (gasp!) competent minion. However, with hindsight being 20/20 and all, I now realize I was VERY (think the U.S. going into Vietnam or Russia in Afghanistan) wrong in this assessment. However, on the positive tip, I wasn't the one who deemed him worthy of being responsible for our most important, highest sales volume, and easiest to fuck up irreparably section, the Dairy; so at least I have that (and my beloved anger) to keep me warm nights. I personally spent roughly 12 hours trainging him in how I wanted things done, but none of it took and I've completely given up (despite being the patron Saint of lost causes and all) on the little pudwhapper. The ONLY time he displays any hustle or effort is on his frequent (say, every 20 minutes or so) runs to the little girls' room. He can, however, take him a mean break.
Anyway, enough backstory. Yesterday, this fucking nitwit, who's worked for me since maybe May (every day's simply a blur of pain misery and suffering and I lose track easily) and has, in fact, worked the involved section a time or 6; not to mention passed it by at least 2X/night, 5 nights/week during said time, asked me, in all seriousness, where the frozen pizzas are located. Moron.
Naturally, being the compassionate sort, I asked him if he knew where the FREEZERS are.
Fuck but I hate that place and the Mensa folk I tend to have to interact with.
Maybe I'll go out and enjoy me some Halloween. I do hope some shapely young adorables come around Stately Deranged Manor this eve, offering me tricks. Oh, what a treat that would be. Be good and be safe tonight. Because I do, in fact, care. About who or what, I've NO idea, but care I do nevertheless.