May the odds be never in your favor
I don’t think the odds are in his “favor.”
May the odds be ever in your favor. Yes, with added emphasis on the “favor.” As in someone level-jumping your relationship and asking for one.
Fast-forward to me at The Reaping: “I volunteer! I volunteer! Pick me! Pick me! Anything is better than this bullshit.”
Unbeknownst to everyone I had previously and surreptitiously taped my winning ticket to the bottom of the fishbowl. They knew how to handle it from there. They’re smooth that way…
But then I woke up and it was too late. I had already foolishly replied, “Yeah, I’ll do you that favor.”
This is where the fun begins.
During the act of accepting the favor request I added, “I’ll do ya the solid. All I ask is that you call before stopping by and never call or stop by before seven in the morning. That’s all I ask of you.” (I sang the last part, again, for added emphasis.)
“No problem, no problem!” I was assured.
Surprise twist, though. Despite being such an exceedingly simple request it turned out to be a big problem.
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It walks like a duck
I had this science fiction vision once. It’s the farthest corner of the universe. Two humans find themselves in an alien jail. The jail is overflowing with multitudes of strange creatures, life forms and aliens. They all have differing numbers of eyes, noses, mouths and faces. Some are sticky to the touch.
Humans are extremely rare in that part of the galaxy. But, against all odds, somehow there are two of them in the very same jail. The jail is enormous, like eight times the size of the Death Star. That’s because it’s operated as a for-profit enterprise by some alien corporation. But that’s another story.
One day the two isolated humans happen to bump into each other.
In that moment, I imagine they’d find some thread of a shred of humanity and commonality that they would cling to like a life raft in that alien sea.
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Mouthy Gift Horse Shit
Way back on Dec. 1, 2011, I made a threat right here on this very blog:
This comic is just the teaser. A bit of foreshadowing, as it were. The actual post I estimate will be about 20,000 words. Or two-fifths of a novel. It’s “coming soon.”
–Tom B. Taker
The day has finally come to back up that threat. I’ve dumped the voluminous manuscript already in progress and will briefly freestyle the story just for you. For a bonus I’ll append a surprise recent twist.
You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the ass even if that’s the only face he ever presents. Or something like that.
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Time to T.P. the Blog #poop
Yes, there’s a crapp for that. Siri says, “Very good! Just one more push and you break the record.” #TMI
My blog may be an expert authority on poop but I do try to keep it classy, ya know?
Blogger Tip: A forgotten point in yesterday’s post becomes the launch point for a new post today. FTW!
So yeah, yesterday I left out a key point that probably changed the flavor of the whole thing. Well, maybe not flavor, but you know what I mean. I’m going to literally pick things up right where we left off.
And that’s the point of today’s article. I’m going to take you on a firsthand tour of the complicated world of small office politics, protocols, mores, values and norms. Just think of me as your very own amateur poop sociologist.
As you might imagine, in a small office little grotesqueries can become big problems if left untreated. That’s why they need to go to the treatment plant. It’s natural for humans to come up with way to cope in the face of unimaginable horrors.
Most of us have the sense to know not to do certain things. We instinctively feel with our gut, much like Captain Kirk, when something is bad form. But then again, some of us don’t. This post is directed at them.
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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