I particularly like the pink S&M room...

Knitting done cool...



and...



There are more wonderful ideas here. I particularly like the pink S&M room. It manages to be fucked up, yet keep its femininity. That's always good.

I straight ripped this from Lesley's blog. Something I hate myself for doing, but, dammit, how could I not?

I'm not just a member...

About 10:00 today, an email came in from one of my co-workers in another office looking for an Outlook fix.

Unfortunately, I was tied up helping some other users and I didn't get to him in a timely manner.

About 3:00 today, an email came in from the same co-worker that said, "What? No love for this office?"

My reply:

Co-worker,

I'm forwarding this to Trudy because we don't, in fact, like you. Much less love you.

Maybe Trudy likes you enough to help you out.

Thanks Trudy!!!

-Stewie

5 minutes later, I got his reply:



I'm not just a member, I'm the fucking President.

Just another day in the inbox...

My roommate sent the following email to me and my friend, Jafo, yesterday.

I read online someone took their beta fish to the vet. I also saw where they’re asking the most humane way to kill a fish that’s sick. Am I cruel and heartless in that I’d look to the toilet for both situations? Am I not fit to be a fish owner?

Before I had read it, Jafo had replied with:

Wide open door for us to stroll through here in terms of what kind of things you aren't fit to own. Just a gaping hole for us to stream foul, evil comments through. Thanks for that.

As far as fish go, for most of your generic aquarium fish, if that stuff that pet stores have that you squeeze into their tanks when they are stressed doesn't work, the toilet is effective. For actually wanting to kill one, they could freeze it. Or do what one of my roommates did with one of his - chuck it in a plastic shopping bag and slam it into a wall and the ground.

Shit. I can't top that.

Sometimes it's better to just watch things unfold.

I want to be cool...

I went and picked myself up a moleskin notebook today because I want to be cool like Renaldo and Lesley.

I had some reservations because Borders had these things so damn shrinkwrapped that I couldn't check them out before I dropped the $14.95 on the one I wanted.

So I stole it. I'll be damned if I'm going to drop coin on something I can't even check out.

Okay, okay. That's a lie. I bought it anyway because of the good word on it from, as said, Renaldo and Lesley, in addition to Renaldo's stellar review of them.

I mean when a seemingly normal guy goes nuts over a little notebook, how could I not buy one?

Anyway, I opened it up when I got home and I must admit that it's pretty nice. I can see myself buying many of these. Hell, Hemingway used one and he was a pretty popular guy from what I hear.

Maybe I'll write the Great American Novel in a few of them.

Or ideas for the next NaNoWriMo.

Either way, it was a solid purchase because it's the kind of notebook you want to fill up with words. Not just any words, either. Any words should be relegated to the likes of those spiral notebooks from the other side of town. The words one puts in a moleskin better be carefully chosen because the Moleskin Notebook has no time for any Tom Foolery.

I used to be this assclown...

I have a new entry processing in my head for a future post, but right now here's an oldie but a goodie on Nice Guys.

Embarrassingly enough, I used to be this assclown.

Oh, and be sure to read the manifesto.

Rock on, ladies.

I'm cool with that, too...

I'm finding a real hard time feeling sympathy for Jill Carroll, the reporter who was abducted in Iraq.

Let's go through a couple things.

She's a woman.
She's an American.
She's a freelance reporter for The Christian Science Monitor.

Oh yeah, IN IRAQ.

Can't imagine none of these things are good.

The Monitor reported:

"A few months after the US invasion, she left Jordan for Iraq, prompted by the desire to show to as vast an audience as possible the human tragedies caused by the war and the hardships of the Iraqi people."

"The kidnappers who abducted her could not have chosen a more wrong target."

Um, I'm thinking terrorists don't do a background check on the American reporters before they kidnap them.

And here's what gets me, it's possible that some soldiers may have to put their life on the line to save her. As if the soldiers don't have enough to worry about, they may have try to save the life of someone who shouldn't even be there.

If she is released, and she goes back over, and gets kidnapped again -- and that would be no surprise to me -- I hope the U.S. government does nothing to help.

As it looks right now, the government isn't getting involved, and I'm cool with that, too.

You put yourself in a volatile situation, you have no one to blame but yourself.

I got enough friends...

I had to work today to test our disaster recovery process.

On Friday, my two co-workers and I were discussing the process. To put faces to the co-workers, refer to the last blog entry. As stated before, I'm the guy in blue.

"Who's going to let us in the building?" I asked. (The recovery center is off-site for obvious reasons).

"They got a guy coming in to let us in," answered Boombox.

"We don't have to fucking talk to him, do we?" I asked.

"What difference does it make?" Boombox said.

I said, "Cause I don't want anymore friends. I got enough friends."

"You don't have any friends," said White Shirt.

"Exactly," I replied. "And that's too damn many."

Just another day at the office...

If anyone ever wondered what my day at the office is like, watch that nextel commercial with the two guys dancing to "push it."

I'm the guy in blue.



You can check out the commercial here or here.

I love my job.

Believe me, he's contributing...

Yesterday, Norman posted a blog about how she was frustrated with her husband not pulling his share when it comes to taking care of the kids. Read the blog, I think Norman had some valid points.

One of the things Norman was mad about was her husband didn't wake up when one of the kids tried to wake him to take care of the monster in the closet. Part of me didn't think he can be blamed entirely if he's a heavy sleeper and just didn't here the kid trying to wake him. I was going to post that thought in the comments, but fuck me, I didn't want to take a chance with all the man hating going on in the comment field.

One of the things I noticed is a few of the stay-at-home mom's were bitching that their husbands didn't do their share.

Well, goddammit, he shouldn't have to. His share is going to work and providing the money for the house, the food, the cars. Your share is taking care of the kids, keeping a clean house and having dinner ready.

And I feel the exact same way if it's a stay-at-home dad. It doesn't matter if the parent at home is the wife or the husband.

It amazed me that some of the commenters expected their husbands to work 40 plus (assuming it's full-time) a week, and then come home and do 50/50 of the taking care of the kids. Fuck. That. It's not like he's not contributing, I mean, hell, you do have a place to live, right? Food? Electricity? Medical insurance? Believe me, he's contributing.

Hell, and you have it lucky. He has to work with assholes all day. Granted, your kids may act like little assholes sometimes, but not every day. Not to mention the commute, the bosses, the customers, etc. Every job, be it the one at the home or the one away from home, has it's ups and downs. Deal with it.

Let me make something clear -- I side with Norman. She works full-time, as does her husband. The late night wakeups should be 50/50 and she should crack her hubby in the ass if she feels like he's not pulling his share.

But to the stay-at-home parents (be it moms or dads) who expect 50/50, you are out of your fucking mind. Completely. I realize raising a family and running a house is a full-time job, but it's your full-time job. If you don't think you can handle the responsibility without fucking bitching about it, talk to your significant other about making different arrangements.

Hail, baby, hail...

Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old D.C.!
Run or pass and score--we want a lot more!
Beat 'em, Swamp 'em,
Touchdown!--Let the points soar!
Fight on, fight on 'Til you have won
Sons of Wash-ing-ton. Rah!, Rah!, Rah!

Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old D.C.!




In a nail-biting defensive battle, Redskins triumphed over the Bucs 17-10.

Seattle, here we come!

I honestly don't know...

Back in the day, I used to work retail. I worked retail for ten years or so, about five of those ten on the management side.

Let me tell you something, I think everyone should work in the service industry for at least one year to see what it's like because customers, for the most part, are ignorant fucks.

It's true, I speak from experience.

For those who complain about the customer service industry going down hill, well, chances are you are part of the problem. It's come to a point where people expect something for nothing or, sometimes, don't know what the fuck they want.

Example...

I was working at the drug store I managed one Saturday night, about an hour before closing, last day of the current sale.

I get called up to the front register for customer assistance.

I arrive at the register where I see an eighty-year-old man and his wife. I nod my head to the customers and say, "What can I do for you?"

The cashier, Germaine, starts to say, "He was wondering if..."

"I can speak for myself, Goddammit," the man said, completely cutting Germaine off.

Oh oh. Here we go. I knew whatever it was, it wasn't about Germaine. He was a rock solid employee who never had any problems. Ever.

There was an ad open on the counter. Old Bastard thrust his gnarly old finger on a picture of razors and said, "I want these and you don't have any on the shelf!"

"I offered a rainche..." Germane started.

"I don't want a Goddamn raincheck! I want these razors. I can't shave with a raincheck!" Old Bastard said. And Bitty Old Bitch stood there, nodding in agreement.

I put a smile on my face, knowing nothing pisses off an irate customer more than someone smiling at them. "Well let's see what I can do," I said.

I looked at what the man wanted. It was a 12-pack of Gillette Mach razors on sale for like $11.49. I walked around the counter and headed down the razor aisle.

"I already looked down there and you don't have them!" He hollered after me.

I turned and smiled, "Well, sir, I'm seeing what I can do for you." And headed back down the aisle.

I reached the razors and saw that we had 4-packs of the Machs. I grabbed three of them and headed back up to the register.

"How about three 4-packs for the sale price?"

"No. I want the ones that are on sale." He said.

What the fuck? I'm quite sure my smile faltered. "But sir, these are the ones on sale."

He picked up the ad and pointed to the pictured razors again.

"Does it say three 4-packs? NO. It says a 12-pack. I want a 12-pack."

"They're the same razor," I said. I was fighting laughter. This guy was insane.

"It might very well be the same damn razor," he said. "But it's not. what's. on. sale." He said, emphasizing the last words with a finger tap to the ad.

"Uh. Okay. Germaine," I said, "can you hand me the calculator?" Germaine handed me the calculator kept behind the registers. I checked the ad price on the 12-pack and headed back down the razor aisle.

"Where are you going now?" Old Bastard asked.

"Checking something, sir. I'm trying to make you happy." I reached the razors and checked the regular price on the 12-pack. I threw the numbers in the calculator and saw the guy was saving 10% on the razors. I walked back to him and said, "Sir, the sale price is 10% off the regular price. How about I give you 20% off any pack of razors for your inconvenience?"

"Not good enough! I am not leaving without the razors that are in the ad?"

"Then I don't know what to tell you, sir," I cheerily replied. "You've been offered a raincheck, you won't take it. You've been offered the exact same razor count, exact same brand, you won't take it. You've been offered a better deal than what's in the ad, you won't take it."

"You can tell me you have the razors that are in the ad."

"No. I can't. Because I don't. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?" I said, smiling still.

"You can wipe that smart ass grin off your face."

"Oh no, sir, I can't. I love dealing with the public. I can't help but be happy when I help customers such as yourself." Behind the man, Germaine was staring at the ceiling, barely containing his laughter. It was always a party when I worked.

Old Bastard threw the ad on the ground in disgust and headed for the door.

"I'm calling your boss tomorrow! I'm going to have your job!" He said as he was leaving. I so loved it when they said that. I can assure you, they didn't want my job because then they'd have to deal with people like themselves.

"Fantastic, sir!" I called behind him. "And you have a wonderful evening and thank you for shopping at RiteAid!"

His finger shot up as he walked out the door. Not the pointy one, either.

The next day I got a call from the district manager's assistant, John. John was the guy that handled all of the complaints for Jerry, the DM.

"Hey Stewie," he said, "how's it going?"

"Good. Let's get to it."

John laughed, "Okay, so you know why I'm calling. Tell me what happened."

So I told him the whole story. By the time I was finished, he was laughing.

"Yeah, that's the story I heard. Did you really tell him to have a good night and thanks for shopping at RiteAid?" He said, still laughing.

"Actually, I believe it was 'have a wonderful evening' and not a good night." I said.

"You are such a prick, man," John laughed.

"So am I in trouble?"

"No. I can't really fault you for anything. You didn't do anything wrong."

"So why are you calling?" I asked, smiling.

"I honestly don't know. I think because I have to. But I don't know what to say to you if you didn't do anything wrong."

"You can say goodbye and let me go back to running my store."

"That I can do," John said, laughing. "Thanks, man, you made my day." And he hung up.

I headed to the salesfloor to see what else kind of trouble I couldn't get into.