It’s late. So late that it’s already dark out. I’m sleepy from sitting in front of the TV for six solid hours under a blankie and shoveling down an entire container of ice cream. Like a zombie I stumble to my feet and stagger towards the bedroom.
“Need… sleep… now…”
No one ever claimed that eloquence is my strong suit.
Finally I reach the doorway and lean against it for support. Must rest. Almost there. Stay on target. Stay on target.
Then I glance at the bed. The covers are completely gone. Nothing but a naked mattress and box springs await. And that’s not exactly the type of naked I had in mind.
Shut up, kid. It’s not like Obi Wan just got bisected with a lightsaber.
“They got washed. The rebel dryer containing clean bedding will be in range in 15 minutes.”
“But I wanted to sleep now!!!”
Why do sheets have to be clean? For that matter, why do we have to sheets at all?
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“Are you not intertwined?” shouted the gladiator. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “What we do at our job resignates in eternity.”
Yeah, it does feel that way sometimes. Luckily my craft doesn’t rely too heavily on proper grammar and fancy so-called “dictionary” words. Hey, just like my blog.
Yes, I’ve called this mandatory staff meeting to discuss resignation origami. (See inset picture.) In the spirit of multitasking this is also my ode to the Pope. To ensure professionalism at all times I hired Phil Mickelson as a consultant.
My research indicates that when it comes to quitting a job there are a few factors that are (allegedly) paramount:
- Give two weeks notice, more if possible
- Don’t burn your bridges
- Write a letter of resignation
- Be respectful
- Be diplomatic
- Be tactful
- Stay professional
- Offer to help
In other words, try to hold yourself to a standard higher than your employer ever showed you. Shit always flows downhill. Apparently, when quitting, the reverse is also true. Gold nuggets are supposed to defy gravity.
But, even so, behold the awesome power of a properly wielded Letter of Resignation (LoR) which automatically confers +7 intelligence and enhanced saving rolls.
More of my observations on this bit of arcane power will magically appear after the jump.
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Let’s go camping!
All your camp belong to us.
Everyone knows about campers, right? They are the lowest of the low. Lower than pig shit. And now, I is one.
A camper is, of course, someone who finds a safe spot to hide and gibs poor little innocent players who stray into his line of fire. (Eat my pineapple!) Back in the early days of Quake, campers were considered scurrilous maggoty scum. Unfortunately, camping was often the only way I could kill my old buddy Raiko, who had me seriously outclassed and …
I think I’m talking about the wrong kind of camping here. Please never mind all of the above.
Let’s Go Camping
Three out of the last four years my wife and I have gone camping. Yes, that camping. Out in the woods. No internet. No bed. No electricity. Sleeping on the ground. Mosquitoes up the ass. My wife thought camping would destroy me. I guess we were both surprised when I manned-up and turned into a completely different guy. I go all wild and shit. I collect and break wood. I start fires. Me Tarzan. I think it still shocks the shit out of her.
The plan was a three-day weekend. We both took Friday off. Thursday after work we jumped right in the car we’d already packed and headed out of town. We had to pick up firewood then go back to our house because I forgot my coat. I didn’t think I’d need the coat but the wife made me do it. So we finally got on our way about an hour late.
We were about five minutes from the house when our first disaster struck.
We were driving on a two-lane road and, just when a pickup truck passed us, something hit our car. Loud. Simultaneously we both shouted, “Motherfucker!” as I pulled the car to the side of the road. I jumped out and watched the truck driving away. He wasn’t stopping.
“That son of a bitch,” I hissed. “He either deliberately threw something at us or kicked something up onto our car.” My money was on the deliberate throwing.
Our adrenaline flowing, we inspected the car, expecting to find something like a smoldering crater of devastation.
“Ah, here we go,” I said. A lounge chair had been tied to the rack on top of the car. That lounge chair had a flap that blocked the sun. That flap had been blown up by the wind and smacked down on our own car.
Yeah, that’s the way we roll. That’s how we started our expedition to the woods. I took it as a good omen. “This portends well for us,” I said wisely.
Without further incident, we finally arrived at the campgrounds. The same one where we camped the last two times. The same spot was still open, too. “Let’s take that one again,” I said. Yeah, I’m not big on change.
My wife wanted to keep looking. There’s a spot she’s always wanted to try. It was taken. But she did find another spot that looked promising. “How about this one?” she asked.
“I’m down for whatever.” But inside, I was thinking, “Old spot, old spot, old spot.”
“OK, this one then.”
Thus began the unpacking of the car ritual. We had to get the tent set up and we were already an hour behind and it was getting quite dark. We made quick work of the task and soon I had a fire going. I plopped down in a Coleman chair. It was time to relax.
My wife grabbed a flashlight. “I can’t find the water. I’m going to go look.” And just like that, I was all alone, in the dark, surrounded by scary animals. And probably a grue.
She came back and shared the bad news. “We got no water here.”
Apparently the campgrounds were divided into two areas. The older original sites all had water. The new sites (like the one she had chosen) didn’t. No water. I quickly calculated the odds of surviving on nothing but Jack Daniels. I thought they were pretty food.
Thus began the weekend of me carrying shitloads of water to our camp.
To be concluded in a post entitled “The Fire Incident” coming soon…
Grumpy grandpa attacks
Grumpy Grandpa was lurking in the shadows. Grumpy Grandpa wields Walking Cane of Grumpiness. Grumpy Grandpa attacks with grumpiness and hits for 27 points of grumpy damage! You flee. Walking on Manicured Lawn bonus fades…
So. Would you rather be attacked by a grumpy grandpa or a grue? I know. It’s a tough choice that could go either way.
Ooops. I just let that cat out of the bag. Yeah, I’m a grandpa. If you are super clever, you can now safely deduce I’m at least 18 years of age or older. Approximately. Yeah, I like to be mysterious that way and keep folks guessing.
Today is also my birthday. Yawn. So the fuck what? Some people think that is a day worthy of celebration. First of all, I’m not so sure I was birthed. I have a strong suspicion I was hatched. Secondly, what’s the big deal about the number of circuits of a planetoid around a big ball of gas being an integer. How many circuits you got, Bob? Oh, about 3.14. Ha! Such a real number. It’s 4.9999 for me! I’m much closer to an integer than you. Loser.
Also, because it’s my birthday I have to make a special trip to the DMV. I’d rather have hot needles stuck in my eyeballs. So I have to write a check to renew my license, get my photo taken, and take time off work to deal with that bullshit which costs me even more money. Lovely.
Two nights ago a package from Amazon.com arrived. The ceremonial exchanging of consumer goods in honor of those circuits around the sun courtesy of Mrs. Abyss. The package sat there on the dinner table as we ate. She looked at me and asked, “Would you like to open that now?”
“Sure,” I answered. “What the hell. That’s two more days we can enjoy whatever is in there before we die. If we wait, that’s two days we’ll never get back.” I was rather pleased with myself for that one. 🙂
Inside the package were three items. A new Creed CD entitled Full Circle. I didn’t even know those chaps had a new CD out. That was quite a nice surprise. Yes, I’m an atheist who likes Creed and even though he’s an ass, I like Scott Stapp. Also in the package was a Steve Martin CD featuring banjo songs. Cool. Lastly, a hardcover edition of Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. I recently read another book by Gladwell entitled Blink and he’s my current favorite author.
Okay, that’s enough of that crap. You kids keep off of my damn lawn or you’ll get a blast of buckshot in your ass, ya hear?!?