First! Piers Into The Future
Which came first? The chicken or the egg flung angrily at the back of someone’s head?
It’s something we’re born with. It’s somehow innate to us. Much like how a kitten without a mommy still knows enough to try to cover his own poo.
It’s something we’re taught by osmosis fro our parents.
And it’s also something we perfect while growing up. We learn by doing.
It’s the circle of life, Simba.
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Trainspotting and Redshirting: Two Great Tastes
Dammit, I want some answers! And right on the train tracks, too. Dammit, man!
I had to consult the Demotivational Dictionary when writing this post since I was unfamiliar with both of the headline terms. It was interesting and educational to say the least!
trainspotting – the process of trains not equipped with waste storage tanks discharging untreated sewage directly onto train tracks.
redshirting – in fiction, a plot device to heighten tension and indicate peril towards main characters, by introducing a stock character who soon dies.
I was going to try to make this post compelling. Too late. That train has already done left the station. Stinky! Now the backwalking begins. Anyone want a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup before we start?
First! (Political Style)
On YouTube it is common for someone quick enough to be “first” to comment. Thus the “first” internet meme was born.
Proving once again that humans never grow beyond the mental age of kindergarden students, so-called “politicians” in New Hampshire and Iowa are engaged in a pissing match to determine who will vote first in the presidential primary.
Or, as I like to describe it, a contest to see which state’s voters will be marginalized the most.
Get to it, kids!
When asked for comment, the Terminator said, “Fuck you, asshole.”
Singing the Praises of my Boss
He took me under his wing. Literally, one day, he wrapped that stinky, unwashed meat of an arm around my shoulders and imparted his wisdom.
“Tommy boy,” he said. “You stink. You’ve been pooping in your pants again, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
He walked me across the room and showed me a strange, wondrous thing. It was a door.
“Beyond here,” he said, “lies a thing known as a toilet. You pull down your pants, sit on it – make sure the lid is up and the seat is down, mind you – and go there instead of your pants.”
“Really?” I gasped. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much! I never knew of such things. What would I do without you?”
“Also,” he added. “Don’t forget to wipe your ass. And I see you turning blue sometimes. Don’t forget to breath. Oh yeah, eat food and drink water, too. Or you might die.”
It was one of those life changing events for me. I was going to live thanks to the wisdom of my boss!
—
As I often like to say, I used to be somebody. I was in management. I was trusted to work autonomously and supervise employees on behalf of my company. And, not to brag or anything, but I also have a genius-level I.Q.
Then I moved to a small town where I had to lick ass in order to make ends meet. That’s where my boss steps in.
Is it wrong for me to feel offended when he treats me like a kindergarten dropout incapable of wiping my own ass?
One day, out of pure necessity I assure you, he took me aside and “trained” me on how to close the store. He had no choice since he wouldn’t be there.
I can still remember it. Close and lock the safes, turn out the lights, punch in the alarm code, and lock the door.
Whew. That’s a lot to remember!
Over time I even added my own flourishes to the procedure, like closing the blinds and making sure the thermostat was set for the night. (He must have not wanted to overload me.)
Here’s the rub. When he leaves early he always goes over and locks the safes. This highly offends me. It’s like he’s saying, “You can’t be trusted. I better do this for you.” It might sound petty, but if you were in my shoes, you’d know that he treats his employees like this all day long, even over things as trivial as a piece of tape.
It doesn’t matter if you’ve never fucked it up, not even once. He’ll be there to impart his wisdom so your truly little brain might have a chance at understanding.
This week, he left early. He went over and closed the safes. But then he added something new. “I like to make sure the safes are closed before closing the shop.”
Really??? HOLY FUCK SHIT!!! Does the New York Times know about this? How about the Wall Street Journal? They might want to bump motherfucking Obama from their opinion pages.
I mean, who the fuck knew that a safe had to be closed and locked to be effective? I thought that even with the door open the shit inside was somehow magically protected!!!
Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this before??? How have I managed to survive so long on this planet without your invaluable knowledge and insight???
You must really love me to hire someone as woefully stupid as me. I’m so lucky. Thank you, boss. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Oops. I just went stinky in my pants again. Dammit, boss! Where are you?!?
Shouts from the Abyss 
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