To the blonde MILF jogging in the park on Sunday

Dear Blonde MILF

I hope you realize that my perving was directed at you and only you, and absolutely no part of it was meant for your young daughter (niece? juvenile jogging companion?).
As implied, I enjoy the perks of jogging in the park, and one of those is a bit of ogling on the sly. It helps me forget that it's been too long since I was jogging regularly (of course), and I usually wear sunglasses to keep my baser proclivities to myself.
You are stacked and I mean stacked, Jeez! You couldn´t fit a baby´s finger in between that sports bra but hey, you are welcome to prove me wrong and show me some day!
I like blondes, NAY love blondes! They have always been my weakness and downfall and will constantly fall victim to them. There is no other basic instinct in me that reacts with such a force as when a blonde walks past. I mean help! I have betrayed girlfriends, missed dates, forgotten friends just because a blonde smiled as she walked past and I ended up spending the day, afternoon or night with them. (Obviously depending on the type of lady involved!!!)

But on Sunday my sunglasses were missing...you see where this is going, right???
Anyway, I must congratulate you on getting your young companion to to run completely concealed behind you, only to emerge at what was, for me, the worst possible time. Do you practice that? It must be the best ogle-stopper in the business. I swear, when she popped out from behind you, my libido panicked and imploded in about a nanosecond, and it took effort not to loose a cry of "Dirty perv!!!" Well played, MILF.

Anyway, I am sorry if the young lady was hit with creep-shrapnel. That really isn't my thing. I apologize if my perusing of your goods was offensive, too. But next time, lose the young one and go solo for a while... If not for the kids innocence then at least for my health. I have a serious medical dissorder in which I need to perv or my balls will explode!!!

See you around?


Location: Costa de Caparica, Portugal.

Paintball Pallet Wars

Report

Date: 16/10/2010

Area: Negrais undisputed war zone

Report:
On Saturday 16th October 2010 at around 9am, the green forces engaged in combat with the blacks team in a violent confrontation of paint for the supremacy of Negrais.


This day would mark the return of some old vets to the paintball field, specially myself who had not seen a war since entering Portugal. It has been 5 odd years of doing nothing but sitting in front of a computer and smoking way too many cigarettes. (Truth be told, just about the only excercise I´ve engaged with during that time frame would be getting up from the couch to go sit down for a meal and squirrel stalking (but thats another story!!!!!)

But enough about my slacker days, on with the show!!!!!!!!!!!!

An enormous, tremendous, overwhelming number of things took place this weekend and the only way that I can do the event and the happenings any justice is to break it all up into a multiplicity of individual reports (unless you’d all rather spend the next five days reading War and Peace 2, the longer version of the day after)

So forthwith, I will now provide you all with a summary:

The Paintball event was partnered mainly with work staff from Estefania.  The facility itself at Negrais has been in use for a few years now but this was the first time any of us had a chance to play on said field.

One major change was evident from the multiple fields I have played in the UK:  the playing fields were a lot smaller, which meant that the games would have to be played with little tactics and loads of guts Or more like run around like a lunatic, scream like your on a mixture of Repnol heart racer and Sudnil stay awake pills!! (basically about fifteen bottles of Vodka and Red Bull!!!)

We played out games and had a great time (I hope I’m not being overly modest by saying that it only took me three games to get my game back), but the majority of the fun and the overall experience was getting together with folks that I’ve not seen or played with/or against before.

I’ll get the lists of vets out of the way first. YES, thats myself, Emanuel and Dave who have been hauling paint out in the field before. (that means we have been through the wars before, in paintballing slang!). Judging by the dropped jaws and the information that all three of us were to stay in the same team seemed to tremble some knees but even though all three of us have had some paintball history under our belts but have not fired paint in a while should have consolled them. It was a pleasure to be able to be around people who knew something of the sport rather than
screaming American teanagers that just ran around like headless chickens.

Suffice it to say that after a long time out of the game the old habbits kicked back in and we were all communication with hand signals, even though most of the time it involved the middle finger!

Consider that to be a good thing.

Ok. Enough with the Rod, Emanuel & Dave Show.

Other notable get togethers were: Toni (FI), Hugo (UKI), Sean (UKI), Manuel (UKI), Manu (GK) & Wife and many other players that I will not mention due to the National Secrets Act of 1971.


Apologies to everyone else who I probably ought to be mentioning but have managed to forgot at this point. (Believe me, I know I will be reminded of so-and-so and I WILL be editing this piece to include anyone who ought to have been mentioned.)

Games that we managed to play during the five hours were:

Shoot the president (a game which ended with the Green Teams President being shot in the face within about 5 minutes)

Afghanistan Oil (this was a real leg killer, specially when your going up hill.)
Trust me this hurts!!
Favelas (basically a city slum, very much like Rio or Lisbon)
Speed Ball (Easiest way to explain this is run around trying to find your gun and waste some ammo)
Pallet Slope (Pallet collection anyone?)
Rock Valley (Rocks, rocks everywhere)

It was an absolute blast and I will be returning to the wars with regularity – (Wife willing!!)

Breathless, with lungs and chest ready to explode like an unborn alien we walked off the field at the end of the day still with the same smiles we had walked onto 5 hours earlier.


I still remember that first game at a real, honest-to-goodness paintball field as if I was observing myself from a distance. And I felt that way at the time too though I can’t explain why. I wasn’t excited, I was intrigued. I wasn’t expectant, I was curious. Until the whistle blew. And everything changed. Prior to the game the refs had explained the field for the newcomers and encouraged everyone to take a lot of ground quickly. Not knowing any better I did exactly what they suggested and ran until I realized paintballs were zinging all around me and I threw myself down behind a tree that didn’t come close to offering real cover. Fortunately there was also a depression in the ground on my side of the slim trunk and I pressed my face up into the exposed roots applying the ostrich principle (If I can’t see them they can’t shoot me) for all I was worth as paint continued to whiz by and smack the tree and ground around me. Suddenly paintball became immediate and real, visceral and intensely exciting. I was so excited infact that I heard someone laugh out loud and suddenly realised that it was me! I quickly realized that while I wasn’t a sitting (or laying)duck I wasn’t secure either and that was great, too. It meant I had to do something besides not get shot. (Although being at risk and continuing to survive was a big part of the thrill.) I called out to my teammates and discovered most of them were quite a distance behind me. That first time it didn’t bother me in the least. They were the ones missing out. Slowly the game began to unfold.
I tried to use my forward position to relay information. To spot the opposition’s positions. I worried about being flanked because my depression wouldn’t save me then. I tried to bring my gun to bear but I didn’t try too hard because I didn’t want the game–this first real experience of paintball–to end. I knew I didn’t have the skills to compete and it didn’t matter. All I wanted was to keep playing.
And fourteen years later I’m still hooked though my relationship to the game has evolved pretty dramatically over the years.

Crispy tweets.

It’s two in the morning, and there is a bird in my ventilation system. That isn’t a euphemism, either. Like “man, I had this bird in my ventilation system last night! It was crazy!”

I bet he'll be tasty.
There is an actual, live bird, trapped in my ventilation system. A fowl imprisoned in a silver cage.

I started hearing things a few days ago. Simple things, not enough to attract any actual attention. At first, I thought it was just the house settling at night, or perhaps even a squirrel on the roof, high out of his mind on acorns, chasing imaginary giant nuts!! But as the noise persisted, I knew it could only mean there was a creature inhabiting my vents. The thing is... It´s not just a normal vent. Its the one linked to my water gas heater!

I first thought it was quite possible that a mouse was running amok in my house, rampant with lust for the pizza I had left the night before and perhaps that mouse decided to take refuge in the vent in the kitchen. But I came to this horrible conclusion this morning, when I heard the unmistakable “tweet tweet tweet” that was accompanied by the slight flutter of a pair of wings, futilely attempting to get enough room to fly.

But instead, the bird sits in my vent, attempting to survive. What a prick. Doesn’t he know that I’m trying to sleep? He can at least have a little respect for those who aren’t facing an imminent death and shut the fuck up.

For now, I need to figure out how to get the bird out of the vent. It would be useful if I knew how the damn thing got in there to begin with. The only reasonable scenario that I can drum up at this early hour relies heavily on the notion of teleportation. Or the chimney.

But that would be ridiculous.

Fed up...

I'm fed up with life. Not only life but work. And driving. And shopping. And eating. And working. Somewhere, somehow, they're different now, none of 'am are the same, they all got chewed up and spit back out, and they don't taste like living anymore! Don't you see what it's like in this deranged Waring Blender of a world?! Every day is an agonizing ordeal, like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head while people whip your legs and butt... (hmmmmm) You never forget Uni...

YOU think I'm "sick"? Well the only disease I've got is "Modern Life," a schnutbusting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that's one long parade of let-downs, put-downs, trickle downs, shutouts, freezeouts, sell-outs, numnuts, nincompoops and nimrods, all making every day as much fun as waxing a flaming Cherokee Jeep with your tongue, where even if you do luck into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like, say, if some nymphomaniac telephone operators with the muscle control of Rumanian mat-slappers agree to a little Strip Air Hockey, it'll be over before it starts 'cuz some vowel-lacking, feta-reeking cab-jockey slams his Checker up your hatchback and the cab is owned by some pinata spanker from a Santeria cult in Xoacalpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete, and even with all this, with ALL THIS, I still drag my sorry butt off the Sealy every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day, knowing when it's time to flash the cosmic card key at those Pearly Gates, I won't be in the coffin anyway 'cuz some underhanded undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted Good 'N' Plenty to that same Santeria cult, so does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails while Life dirty-dances on their digits, and is it really any wonder that I seem DERANGED???!!"

But...heh that's probably nothing you haven't heard a hundred times before...

Some suggestions for the Youth of today on how to not be Useless

First of all, PULL UP YOUR FUCKING JEANS!!!
Look, I support your right to express yourselves, I did the whole Rebellious Youth thing when I was in school. But having your jeans hanging down with your underwear sticking out of the back is about the stupidest look you could go for. You look worse than a fucking retard, cause at least the retard was trying to put them on right. Besides, in Prison it means you're already "spoken for" and it's a signal to other cons not to hit on you, because you're someone else's bitch. So unless you take it up the ass from a 300-plus pound, life sentence or more, not-ever-eligible-for-parole murderer on a regular basis, or have to blow him & his buddies whenever he says, pull up your jeans you useless bastards.

Learn the value of respect. For instance, if you don't respect yourself, how in the hell can you expect anyone else to respect you? Years ago, before you could call 999 and have the Child Protection Agency arrest your parents, disrespect earned you an ass-kicking. If you fucked up, you paid the price, simple as that. Respect is better than money in a way, because the more you give to others the more you get in return. An unruly, disruptive, over-indulged little cshit is a useless individual, destined to be nothing more than a burden to society, unless your parents were smart enough to become wealthy. Then you won't be a burden to society but you'll still be a useless fuck head.

Learn the value of money. I don't know why your parents can't say "No" to you whenever you whine for the latest hundred-euro pair of jeans or an expensive gaming console, but just be glad you're not my kid. I started making my own money before I started school by washing windows in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter. There will always be someone willing to pay you to do things for them, if you get off your lazy ass and do it. I would probably pay some neighbourhood kid a 50 to cut my grass, but in an area full of teenagers, there aren't any who would do it. Believe me, it feels way better to pay for something out of your own pocket. That way you don't have to justify it to anyone. My dad caught me smoking when I was 14 and swore he would never give me money for cigs, and was true to his word. But I always had cigs, because I always had money. So knock off your pussy-assed whining and earn your own money, otherwise you're also a useless shit for brains.

Pimps and drug dealers are not role models, they're pussies. When you call something "Pimp" all it says to me is that it's something overtly tacky and ostentatious (look it up) and cheap. In other words, totally devoid of class and purpose. When you implement the previous suggestions, you will realize that you can't buy class. Just because a suit cost 1,500 doesn't mean it won't make you look like a fucking carnival barker (look that up too). If you drive a chimp around in a limo, it doesn't mean that chimp has class, because he'll still beat off and throw his shit at you. The same is true for people; just because some white trash fuckwit won the Lotto doesn't mean he's a better person, it just means he'll swap his rusted-out 88 piece of shit Ford Capri for a new Escort, and finally buy that second Elvis-on-velvet painting he could never afford before. A pimp makes money by bullying women into giving him money,and any able-bodied grown man who doesn't earn his own living is a useless shit.

I'm sure I'll be putting up similar posts in the future, because I'm far from done.

Unemployed smokers

As people, we occasionally we bear witness to some magnificent event that happens but once in a lifetime. Halley’s Comet, the Aurora Borealis, or Pam Anderson’s first sex tape. Sometimes these things are glorious, mystifying, or just too effed up to that they make you say “Wait, did that just happen?”

What I experienced last week was all three. Here is my story…

Every day during lunch, I take a little stroll around the park area near my office. During these walks, I’m treated to a veritable rogues gallery of citizens: Young professionals enjoying a bite to eat outside, students catching a smoke between class, a handsome young stranger (Oops, that’s just my reflection! I’m so silly.)

My walk nears its end as I make my way out of the park and back to the office building – a convergence of four streets that serve as a conduit to the rest of the city. This is where the action happens. A lot of traffic, both of the rubber and leather variety. (By leather, I mean shoes, not an S&M enthusiast parade.)

In other words, there are a lot of people here. And when you have a lot of people in one area, in the middle of the day, that can only mean one thing: Unemployed jukes with nothing better to do with their time than hang out. And when I say “unemployed,” I don’t mean 30-year-old account executives who were laid off. I mean people who are barely qualified to walk and chew gum at the same time. You dig?

So there are a lot of jukes hanging ’round at noon on a weekday, and as I turn the corner of the home stretch of my daily jaunt, my eyes lock onto one at about 20 yards. For some reason, this juke intrigues me. I’m a people watcher by nature, so I just watched this guy. Maybe it was his bandanna that held his ratty hair back just so, maybe it was the torn denim jacket that appears to have several blood stains (none of them his), or maybe it was the black tracksuit trousers that were tucked into his combat boots – as if to tell the world “Hey, I still use a tape deck – what of it?” Whatever the case may be, this guy reeked of something. This must be what Spiderman feels like when he senses trouble afoot, or when he gets a boner. (Come on, you’re telling me that Peter Parker’s Spidey-senses don’t go off when he is about to get a piece? HA! I said “go off!” That wasn’t even on purpose.)

Anyhow, I knew this guy wasn’t going to let me down. At 15 yards, he slows his pace as he spots something on the pavement. Yes, yes. 10 yards, he bends at the waist and picks something up. Okay…what is it? The cap to a magic marker, a rubber band? 5 yards, he stands upright, the treasure in his hand. You fool, what is it? 3 yards, he opens his hand to reveal…a cigarette. WHAT? A previously lit, used and stepped on. THAT’S GROSS! I don’t mean that it was lit for five seconds and tossed because the smoker couldn’t take it on the bus, I mean that this thing was damn near smoked all the way. All that remained was the filter. And he spotted it from 40 feet, like a nervous eagle who had the shakes.

And it’s not so bad that he picked it up (Wait, yes it is), it’s that he then examined it, smelled it, and put it in his wallet. In front of a dozen other people who were waiting for the bus or just walking by. In the middle of the day. Obviously, he was holding onto it so he can smoke it later, unless this cat just so happened to be some kind of archivist who specializes in half-smoked cigarettes, old lip gloss and used condoms.

But really, well done, sir. Well done.

It’s gross enough that he picked up a used cigarette, but it was lodged in a pavement crack. A crack, mind you, that was probably filled with urine at some point. And feces. And probably vomit. And DEFINITELY semen. These pavements are such filth traps that even the rats avoid them. THE RATS!

Which brings me to my point: Where did society fail this man? This isn’t as simple as “he wasn’t loved enough as a child,” either. This can only be the end result of some aggressive, abusive, mind-effing as a child. We’re talking Menendez brothers meets Joan Crawford meets the guy who jizzed on Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs. Something went very, very wrong with this guy at some point in his life.

And as Thoreau said: The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. Maybe this man was a little too quiet. A little too desperate. Maybe no one heard his cries for help or his pangs of hunger. Like so many of us, he was left in the cold to freeze, alone and naked like a penguin egg without its mother to protect it. And when life finally called to grant him a reprieve from the torment he had suffered, perhaps he chose not to answer it. For a life unearned is a life not worth having. I think that’s something we can all appreciate.

But maybe this guy was just gross, but hey, free cigarettes.

99 Ways To Annoy People

1. Sing the Batman theme incessantly.

2. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sensual massage."

3. Specify that your drive-through order is "to go."

4. Learn Morse code, and have conversations with friends in public consisting entirely of "Beeeep Bip Bip Beeep Bip..."

5. If you have a glass eye, tap on it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.

6. Amuse yourself for endless hours by hooking a camcorder to your TV and then pointing it at the screen. <

7. Speak only in a "robot" voice.

8. Push all the flat Lego pieces together tightly.

9. Start each meal by conspicuously licking all your food, and announce that this is so no one will "swipe your grub".

10. Leave the copy machine set to reduce 200%, extra dark, 17 inch paper, 98 copies.

11. Stomp on little plastic ketchup packets.

12. Sniffle incessantly.

13. Leave your indicators on for fifty miles.

14. Name your dog "Dog."



15. Insist on keeping your car windscreen wipers running in all weather conditions "to keep them tuned up."

16. Reply to everything someone says with "that's what YOU think."

17. Claim that you must always wear a bicycle helmet as part of your "astronaut training."

18. Declare your apartment an independent nation, and sue your neighbours upstairs for "violating your airspace".

19. Forget the punch line to a long joke, but assure the listener it was a "real hoot."

20. Follow a few paces behind someone, spraying everything they touch with chocolate smelling aerosol.

21. Practice making fax and modem noises.

22. Highlight irrelevant information in scientific papers and "cc:" them to your boss.

23. Make beeping noises when a large person backs up.

24. Invent nonsense computer jargon in conversations, and see if people play along to avoid the appearance of ignorance.

25. Erect an elaborate network of ropes in your backyard, and tell the neighbours you are a "spider person."

26. Finish all your sentences with the words "in accordance with the prophesy."

27. Wear a special hip holster for your remote control.

28. Do not add any inflection to the end of your sentences, producing awkward silences with the impression that you'll be saying more any moment.

29. Signal that a conversation is over by clamping your hands over your ears.

30. Disassemble your pen and "accidentally" flip the ink cartridge across the room.

31. Give a play-by-play account of a persons every action in a nasal Darlek voice.

32. Holler random numbers while someone is counting.

33. Adjust the tint on your TV so that all the people are green, and insist to others that you "like it that way."

34. Drum on every available surface.

35. Staple papers in the middle of the page.

36. Ask telephone operators for dates.

37. Produce a rental video consisting entirely of dire copyright warnings.

38. Sew anti-theft detector strips into peoples backpacks.

39. Hide dairy products in inaccessible places.

40. Write the surprise ending to a novel on its first page.

41. Set alarms for random times.

42. Order a side of pork rinds with your filet mignon.

43. Invite lots of people to other people's parties.

44. Publicly investigate just how slowly you can make a "croaking" noise.

45. Honk and wave to strangers.

46. Dress only in clothes coloured Hunters Orange.

47. Change channels five minutes before the end of every show.

48. Tape pieces of "last of the summer wine" over climactic parts of rental movies.

49. Wear your jeans backwards.

50. Decline to be seated at a restaurant, and simply eat their complimentary mints by the cash register.

51. Begin all your sentences with "ooh la la!"

52. ONLY TYPE IN UPPERCASE.

53. only type in lowercase.

54. dont use any punctuation either

55. Buy a large quantity of orange traffic cones and reroute whole streets.

56. Pay for your dinner with pennies.

57. Tie jingle bells to all your clothes.

58. Repeat everything someone says, as a question.

59. Write "X - BURIED TREASURE" in random spots on all of someone's roadmaps.

60. Make appointments for the 31st of September.

61. Repeat the following conversation a dozen times: "Do you hear that?" "What?" "Never mind, its gone now."

62. Light road flares on a birthday cake.

63. Wander around a restaurant, asking other diners for their parsley.

64. Leave tips in Bolivian currency.

65. Demand that everyone address you as "Conquistador."

66. At the Laundry, use one dryer for each of your socks.

67. When Christmas carolling, sing "Jingle Bells, Batman smells" until physically restrained.

68. Wear a cape that says "Magnificent One."

69. As much as possible, skip rather than walk.

70. Stand over someone's shoulder, mumbling, as they read.

71. Pretend your computer's mouse is a CB radio, and talk to it.

72. Try playing the William Tell Overture by tapping on the bottom of your chin. When nearly done, announce "no, wait, I messed it up," and repeat.

73. Drive half way down a road and then just get out looking at the sky. Repeat several times.

74. Inform others that they exist only in your imagination.

75. Ask people what gender they are.

76. Lick the filling out of all the Oreos, and place the cookie parts back.

77. Cultivate a Norwegian accent. If Norwegian, affect a Southern drawl.

78. Routinely handcuff yourself to furniture, informing the curious that you don't want to fall off "in case the big one comes".

79. Deliberately hum songs that will remain lodged in co-workers brains, such as "mission impossible", "batman" etc.

80. While making presentations, occasionally bob your head. like a parakeet.

81. Lie obviously about trivial things such as the time of day.

82. Leave your Christmas lights up and lit until September.

83. Change your name to "AaJohn Aaaaasmith" for the great glory of being first in the phone book. Claim it's a Hawaiian name, and demand that people pronounce each "a."

84. Sit in your front yard pointing a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down.

85. Chew on pens that you've borrowed.

86. Wear a LOT of cologne.

87. Listen to 33rpm records at 45rpm speed, and claim the faster speed is necessary because of your "superior mental processing."

88. Sing along at the opera.

89. Mow your lawn with scissors.

90. At a golf tournament, whenever someone swings at the golf ball shout “GO ON MY SON!"

91. Ask the waitress for an extra seat for your "imaginary friend."

92. Go to a poetry recital and ask why each poem doesn't rhyme.

93. Ask your co-workers mysterious questions, and then scribble their answers in a notebook. Mutter something
about "psychological profiles."

94. Stare at static on the TV and claim you can see a "magic picture."

95. Select the same song on the jukebox fifty times.

96. Never make eye contact.

97. Never break eye contact.

98. Construct elaborate "crop circles" in your front lawn.

99. Construct your own pretend "tricorder," and "scan" people with it, announcing the results.

Shut Your Mouth, Close Your Legs, and Raise Your Kid

There sure are a lot of fertile women out there. It never ceases to amaze me that some walking sperm bank can continue to pop out kids like it's an Olympic sport, but wouldn't know how to properly raise any of their heathen bastards if Dr. Spock raped them with one of his self-help books.

The moms of this nation have to be stopped! If done properly, raising a child is a full-time job. But lying on your back every night, allowing your husband to violate you any way he can imagine, then popping out another unit every nine months, is not a job. You have to actually put forth some effort and teach the little soul-suckers you've produced. Going out in public with the cast from The Island of Dr Moreau and spending your husbands money on useless crap your kids don't need is not a job. Teaching your children how to function in a society, how to read, write, communicate, and act like they're not being raised by a pack of wolverines, requires actual parenting. If you are not up to the task do us all a favour and have your twat stapled shut so we don't have to put up with any more walking genetic deformities.

If you're not sure if this rant is about you, here's a quick guide:

If you continue to shop while your kids try to re-enact the Rodney King beating in a department store, quit fucking.

If you have to decide which is more important, baby food or alcohol, quit fucking.

If you are only birthing children as an excuse to not work, quit fucking... and kill yourself

If you leave any number of your children in your vehicle unattended because you're only going to be gone 'for a minute', quit fucking.

If you have to go to a bar and insist on using your television or computer as a babysitter, quit fucking.

In short, your children are a direct reflection of your parenting. If you can't be a good parent, your privilege to fuck should be revoked. Do us all a favour and let your man blow his load in your mouth, hair, ass, ear, anywhere but your baby-maker.

Working like a sexual predator

Yes, I just spent the last 8 hours at work. In a call center. Should the opportunity ever arise for you to go sit in a call center, don't!

Let me clue you in. Call center workers are anal-retentive fucks. Well, most of them. The rest of them, me included, have coping mechanisms that basically involve us screwing everyone or pissing everyone around us off. Usually both.

SO today I am trying to work. There is a ginormous sign on the wall that says "No eating, no smoking, no mobiles, vibrators, sex of any form,, either on the desks under them or in the toilets. No IV drips, biscuits, coffee, Vodka or cock fights anywhere in the call center. Offenders will be removed, beaten with bagpipes and told not to do it again etc, etc. Really scary shit. I am high on adderall, (I am rotating between adderall and ritalin for work. ON the plus side, I am still off the valium, xanax, and alcohol. Someday I will look back on sentences like that one and wonder when I became a junkie and a pillhead and when I actually acknowledged it. (But Not yet.)

So I am trying to wrap my mind around the acceleration clause exception to the rule of bank holiday cut offs and this girl walks past. A new breed of worker, those new girls full of enthusiasm for their work until they realise that what we do is shit, who we talk to everyday are shits and those that pay our wages (If you want to call them wages, even though slave labour has been abolished many years ago they have ingeniously found a way to pay someone minimum wage and still call it work) are shit bag assholes!! She walks past, swaying her hips and driving me crazy. She has no idea who I am but I´m sure that she senses that I want to bang her until she bleeds through her nose!!! ANYWAY!!!!!!! Everyone in the room (all the males at least) Huff as she walks past. (At least I think they do or I´m hearing my inner child/alter ego talking again) It was the main noise for most of the morning. A hundred voices, huffing in this pent up sexual frustration, burning inside.

We are all high on work drugs, crabby, and on a deadline. This woman drives me up the wall everytime I take a wiff of her scent. I´m like a dog, NAY!!! A wolf on heat and I can feel this fire burning from within my boxers. People watch me as I stare and say the usual.... "Her father is worried about her now ! Or... Dude! You like a ravid dog." Shut the fuck up!!!! What the hell do you know!!! I need to bang that bird before my scrotam explodes!!!!!!!!!!

I turn to her, smile politely, "Wanna breed?"

"EXCUUUUUUUSE ME?" she asks.

I pointed to the fire exit.

"IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, SAY IT!" she yawps.

I stand up. I´m not that tall but I stand a good 6 inches above her. "You and me, outside in the alley, go at it like rabbits????"

She got up and ran outside. She returns with a security guard. I am back to anticipatory repudiation.

"HIM!" she squawks. "HE TRIED TO SEXUALLY ABUSE ME!"

Point of information - a security guard at a call center has little to no power, KNOWS that everyone looks down on him, and TAKES ADVANTAGE OF ANY CHANCE TO WEILD HIS SECURITY BADGE.

"I did not sexually abuse her. I just tried to convince her to go outside with me."

He hitches up his trousers. "I think we have a problem here."

No shit, sherlock. It is statements like that that are the reason I am on THIS side of that uniform and you are on THAT side.

"Go and smoke your fiftieth cigarette. Take the moaning bitch with you so she can shout sexual abuse at someone else.

Silence. The security guard tries to stare me down. THAT's not gonna happen. Woman informs me she is going to "report me". I have no idea what that means. I may get sent to my supervisor for a good spanking. Is spanking still legal? Security guard, also shorter than me, hisses that if he has to come back, he is going to forcefully remove me. HA!!!!


I still have no idea who else I can annoy this week, my adderall is wearing off and my head hurts.

But yes, I am still winning friends and influencing people and spreading joy wherever I go.

Name change rant

I am in full support of someone who changes his or her name (legally.) There are plenty of reasons why you might want to change it. Religious reasons, you are wanted by the KGB, a sex change, or your parents are rich pseudo-intellectual antidisestablishmentarians and named you something ridiculous like Ranthanon, are all acceptable reasons to change your name. What I absolutely despise is when people change their name from a normal one, to a weird one.
I call it a, “I want to be different”
name change. A, “I want to be different” name change, is where a person just decides one day they want to go by a different name.
For example: “My name is not Tom anymore, I am Salamander.” Or, “I am not Susie, I am Raven Willow.”
When you hear that it makes you want to go, “Really? I changed my name too. My name is not Bill anymore, it’s you’re a douche bag and I want to punch you in the face.”
Usually these arachnion’s don’t legally change their name, because deep down they know they are going to want to go back to their original name. Eventually they get to the point where they want to mate, and they realize the “Hi, I’m Siddhartha” line does not work. They find out that their pretentious “I want to be different” name; instead of intriguing people, instead makes people want to use a fork to put a fire out on their face.

I had a friend (I am going to use a different name because he’s probably reading this) do the, “I want to be different” name change. It totally changed the dynamic of us hanging out. My buddies name was Jordan, which is not a unique name. In his defense, it is not common either. According to the 25 most popular names of the 80’s (when he was born) Jordan ranks 189th. One day, Jordan, out of the blue says to me,
“Don’t call me Jordan anymore. My real name is Oparen! Jordan is dead to me.” He hadn’t changed his name legally; he just did the “I want to be different” name change because according to Jordan, Oparen was his “true name.” I did not know this about his new name, but apparently Oparen in Latin means, I need attention. I hated the sudden name change because I had been calling him Jordan for 5 years, and now he just decides that his true name is Oparen and expects everyone to call him that. The problem is, everyone did start calling him that, but me. We would all be out, and I would say, “Hey Jordan” and everyone would look at me like I just spit in a handicapped kids face.

It got to the point where I stopped addressing him by his name period. Which made it weird when I would have to call his house; where other people lived. I always wondered if his family embraced this sudden name change. I would call and just combine the name like, “Is Jorparen there?” Usually this would get a laugh out of one of his family members and they would hand the phone to him. Finally, 5 years later, I decided I would start calling him Oparen. The first time I called him Oparen he said to me, “Oparen is not my name anymore. I am going back to my real name; Jordan.” I felt like I had just been punked. It seemed like it was a 5-year elaborate practical joke on me.

Moral of this rant is, if you change your name; commit to it. Like the guy I knew who legally changed his name to Mister Ohlala (true story.) If you don’t like your name then legally change it to something you like. Don’t flip flop like a Commie out of water. However, If you do come across someone who pulls the “I want to be different” name change on you, stab them to death with something very dull.