She was wearing a push-up bra.
Or maybe she wasn’t a she. Maybe she was a he.
It’s hard to tell with sheep.
Yeah, I say I’m the guy who welcomes you to The Ritz and whispers he can get you anything, but I really just say that to get a big tip.
Still, when folks want me to deliver, I deliver pronto.
Some folks take me up on that for girls. Or boys. Or drugs. Or tickets.
This was the first sheep.
I hope it’s the last. I swear, call me crazy, but it’s starting to turn me on.
Woke up, no paper on my side table so I can catch up with things. Tivo’s been wiped. Went online to check my accounts, and they’re a mess. Everything’s overdrawn.
Damn servants always end up trying to stab you in the back. It’s only a matter of time, always happens.
I waste an hour with the hotlines my banks and brokers have for low-profile “after hours” customers like me. Everything’s taken care of, they should have the guy at my doorstep before midnight, as usual.
Drinking a traitor’s blood is the sweetest revenge.
Time to post on Hotjobs again: “Servant.”
Up here, they call we repair guys a “Scotty.”
I have no idea why.
Sometimes, the motors and gyros on a solar array get jammed, and I have to suit up and go out to smack it with a hammer for a while.
We’re supposed to use remote-robots to do this, but a good Scotty wants to smack the machinery with his own hand, not through some joystick or virtual glove.
Until the seals break, that is.
From a dry spring day in your suit to colder than the coldest winter in less than a second.
I call it Death.
First, they wanted me to work a double shift. Lots of drivers are sick and it’s a busy weekend.
More got sick, so after I got back to the garage, they offered a triple. I’d even get to take out one of the new cars if I worked it.
I took the keys, slid into the most comfortable car seat of my life, and fired up the engine.
I don’t think I’ve gotten so many fares in my life. And the tips have been extraordinary.
They’ll help pay for this car when they pry me out of it.
Gerald the Geek was famous for biting the heads off of live chickens. I don’t think there’s a county fair that hasn’t had chicken blood drooled by Gerald on its midway.
One day, those wiseasses from PETA knock on my door, yelling all sorts of crazy demands.
“Let the elephants go free!”
“Stop torturing the horses!”
“Does the Snake Lady have an on-staff, full-time herpetologist?”
Blah blah blah. Damn hippies.
They also wanted Gerald fired. So Gerald did what came natural and bit their heads off.
If he gets out, it won’t be for fifty years.
So, want the job?
So, this jackass from Turkey writes an email asking to get the files off of his webserver. I look up his account.
He cancelled his service a few days ago.
Wouldn’t any rational human being download all their files first, then cancel the service? Or are things that different in Turkey? Do they do everything ass-backwards, like eating the cone before the ice cream, slipping on the condom after having sex, or dropping trou after taking a dump?
Man, no wonder why the EU doesn’t want those crazy bastards in their club. Europe is messed up enough as it is.
They flipped a coin.
Bob won. “You type.”
When Terrence typed “Cook” in the field for Occupation, Bob balked.
“He’s a chef, not a cook,” said Bob.
“There is no difference between chef and cook,” said Terrence. “Chefs are professional cooks, and professional only means that you’re getting paid.”
“Professionalism means more than just payment,” said Bob. “There’s an element of experience, and dedication you’re leaving out.”
“Fine,” said Terrence. As always, he got out the correction fluid, painted over “Cook” and typed in “Chef.”
“Thank you,” said Bob. “So, what does the coroner think?”
“Ahem. Medical examiner.”
I work for a winery in California, answering the calls on the 800-number.
Most of the calls are complaints, but every now and then I get a world-class weirdo.
Just this morning, someone asks, “What sort of wine goes with donkey?”
Now, I’m no expert, but a bunch of experts wrote up a list of what goes with what.
We’ve got different kids of steaks, all sorts of chicken dishes, and even suggestions for squid and octopus…
“Nothing for donkey,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Fine,” says the caller. “I’ll serve beer. Thank you.”
And he hangs up.
I need a vacation.
When the clock strikes one, I put down my shears, grab a spear, and head out the front door of my shop to challenge Hans, the baker across the way.
“SHAKA ZULU!” I shout, and I hurl the spear at his shop’s front door.
When the clock strikes two, I know that Hans will soon hurl the spear back at my door.
“SHAKA ZULU!” echoes across the street.
Folks around here know to get down or keep clear.
So today, when I hurled the spear…
Screams pierce the air. Sirens in the distance, approaching fast.
I work in a call center and the company owner is really cheap.
Of all the awful things here, the chairs here are the worst. They are old, worn-out, and cause frequent painful injuries.
One guy was speared with a spring and lost a kidney. Another broke a wrist and an ankle when a wheel just completely let go. A third rolled out of a window, never to be seen again.
Bob got it the worst. One day, he’s typing away, and we hear a loud CRACK!
He’s in a wheelchair now. Can’t feel anything below his neck.