Instead of giving us raises, the bosses bring in lunch once a week.
It’s usually pizza. Which I can’t eat because of ulcers.
“Can you order a salad for me?” I ask.
They never do. They just apologize. As usual.
One time, they brought sandwiches.
Pizza sandwiches.
“Hey, it’s free,” they say. “Quit complaining.”
And I did. I quit complaining.
I stacked up the trays of sandwiches and shouted “YOU ARE FREE!” and took them to the park to feed the homeless.
They fired me.
I lost my house. I sleep in the park.
Where’s my free fuckin’ sandwiches now?
Tag: dirty
Truck Day
Truck Day is when a truck full of servers arrives at the datacenter loading dock.
We pull the crates off of the truck, uncrate the servers, stack them on to carts, roll them into the staging area, remove the hot swappable drive holders, unscrew spacers from them and screw the drives into place.
Meanwhile, other crews bolt on rail glides to the chassis, slide out the blades, fill them with memory, pop in the drives, and get them into the racks.
Finally, everything is cabled and scanned into inventory so it’ll be ready to host shit like this stupid story.
Donut Day
It is National Donut Day.
Even though I’m on a diet, I bought a donut.
It was only 85 cents, and I carried the bag through the park, to my office, and put it on my desk.
Then, I pinned it to the wall and left it there for the entire day.
At the end of the day, I looked at the bag and realized I hadn’t eaten the donut.
This is not a credit to my willpower, because I wasn’t able to resist 4 grab-bags of Cheet-o’s and Dorito’s.
I just forgot I pinned the fuckin thing up there.
Lover Fighter
Hey, man. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
I don’t want to fight.
Unless you’re smaller and weaker than me. Then I’ll beat the crap out of you.
But if you’re bigger than me, yeah, I’m a lover. I’ll love you to keep from beating the crap out of me.
Until I can catch you off guard, that is. Then I’ll stop loving you, and stab you in the back or run you over with a car.
Of course, then I’ll go to prison, and knowing my luck, I’ll be stuck as a lover.
No matter how much I fight.
Bashed Brains
Pro Football player Junior Seau killed himself today. He’d been having awful problems as a result of all the concussions he’d suffered by playing football for so many years.
Last year, Dave Duerson from the Superbowl-winning Chicago Bears put a bullet in his gut.
It’s a problem many players have been experiencing, and they want to raise awareness of the dangers of concussions, but some just can’t take the pain and the suffering, so they kill themselves.
It’s sad, but then when you bash yourself against other huge guys for twenty to thirty years, what the fuck do you expect?
Scratching Backs
Whenever someone says “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours” I feel uncomfortable.
In order for us to scratch each others backs at the same time, we’ll need to get awfully close to each other, and facing each other.
We’ll look awfully silly that way, and not that I have anything against people of differing sexual preference, I’d rather not get a reputation for that behavior.
“We’re just scratching each others backs!” I say.
“Oh, sure you are,” you say, and wink.
Sure, we could take turns, but who goes first?
We toss a coin, and both call heads.
Power of prayer
I knelt down by the bed and barely had said “Dear Lord” before I heard a loud booming voice shout:
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW?
“God?” I whispered.
I SAID WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW?
“I just wanted to say thanks, and I look forward to tomorrow,” I said.
BULLSHIT.
“Seriously, I’m cool,” I said.
WELL, HERE’S A FUCKIN BICYCLE SOME KID KEEPS ASKING FOR, BUT THE KID’S AN ASSHOLE, SO FUCK HIM.
And a bicycle appeared on my bed.
“Amen?” I said.
DAMN STRAIGHT.
It was kid-sized. Useless to me.
I donated it to charity.
False Witness
The Famous Reverend Blake is never seen in public without his twin bodyguards.
And his bodyguards are never seen without their white plastic masks.
Well, sometimes, they are. When they take their turn as Reverend Blake.
They’re actually identical triplets, changing roles when convenient.
This is useful for Blake’s “24 Hours Of Jesus” marathon sermons.
Or, during his weekly sermons at his sprawling megachurch, an alibi for his perverted obsessions in the day care center.
Twenty thousand loyal followers saw Blake up there preaching.
There’s no way he could have been down there.
Bearing false witness is a sin, child.
The Whorologist Of Babylon
The first thing that Dr. Foster was told when he first joined the Royal Observatory Museum’s staff was to describe his job as researching and maintain historical timepieces.
“People crack jokes when we say horology, and they never take us seriously,” said the museum’s director.
“When I say I’m the director of a horology institute, they ask me if that makes me a pimpologist.”
The director winked, pressed a button, and twenty beautiful women in various states of undress walked into the room.
“I wind everybody else’s watch all day long,” he said. “So why not have them wind mine?”
Payout
Recently, a fucked-up soldier murdered 16 Afghans in the field.
Some were women. Some were children.
The government paid the survivors fifty thousand dollars for each dead relative.
There are twenty-nine million Afghans.
Do the math, and you come up with a trillion and a half dollars payout if we killed them all.
Then, I realized, that you wouldn’t have to pay a dime if we killed them all. Because there’d be nobody left to pay.
Instead, I’m taking off my shoes and my belt to get on a fucking plane.
While this minimum-wage moron wants to fondle my balls.