Workplace Barflies
This image, just like this post, does not cut the mustard.
There’s really no point to this post. Leave. Now. -Ed.
Feed. It’s what’s for dinner. Mmm. That sounds good. I’ll have that! Yeah, I’m a hundred and six years old, and I still make my own bread! (Prideful braggart.)
Well, what do you want to eat? Mmm. Do you have biscuit with a little bit of mustard on it? Mmm.
I don’t know about your family but in my family we have this tradition. Any time we assemble to break break together (or biscuit or whatever) there’s one thing we’ll do for sure: Discuss and speculate about the next meal a comin’.
It’s pretty much the exact opposite of being mindful and appreciative. Someone went to a lot of effort and bother to put this food before us. First, they had to have a vision and plan the damn thing, and that may be the hardest part of all. Then they went to a grocery store and spent money on stuff and brought it home. Then, using recipes and their own skills, prepared, assembled and cooked it all together while we sat on our lazy asses.
Yeah, I think they deserve more appreciation than us talking about the next meal we plan to shove in our face holes.
That said, where do you wanna go? To eat? That’s the conversation my wife and I had last night.
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Timeline: Demo T. Vader
Demo is in the house, yo!
Every morning the guru of negativity loads up his Facebook which pushily insists, “What’s on your mind?”
Oh no. I’m not about to fall for that one.
The people you’ve connected with on Facebook are called “friends.” Laws, yes. Friends. Good one!
Of the various types of content on Facebook, my favorite goes a little something like this:
- The opening: You want something. State what it is. Ex: “I’m curious how people feel about my sexual organs.”
- The insult: Get things rolling with a jab at your so-called “friends.” Ex: “I know only approx. 4-1/2 of you ever read my posts.”
- The hook: Describe the payoff in terms of pleasure centers of the brain that will glow upon compliance. “I’m going to give you a chance to prove your friendship.”
- The plea: This is the objective, the thing you hope to see accomplished. Ex: “Reply to this with a graphic description of your favorite sexual organ on my body. Sexual organs only, please!”
- The demanding social element: This is self-explanatory. Ex: “You must then copy this to your own timeline so my ego can grow. Please don’t comment and not copy to your own timeline.”
Out of respect, I’m not going to comment because I have absolutely no intention of following your rules. Thanks for trying to control me, though.
For the record:
- Yes, I actually read your shit. And I loathe myself for it.
- You can’t handle the truth. I won’t comment on our alleged “friendship.”
- It’s news to me that you have sexual organs so I’m unable to comment further.
- I will decide what pieces of evil hate go on my timeline. Not you. Nice effort, though.
- A real friend wouldn’t have done this. Thanks for reinforcing my theories.
Has Facebook invented a squelch feature yet or must I continue to be subjected to this crap with a little help from my friends?
Abyss Vacation Planning
Julie is my alter ego. See Isaac for a paloma then let’s have a talk. I’ll show you how to plan a vacation right, motherfucker.
Even an guru gets days off once in a while. Unpaid, of course.
Back in the day, in The Other Life (as I now call it) I had a real job. It had a real salary. It had real benefits like paid sick days, paid holidays, 401k, medical, and dental. Hell, it was almost enough to keep my negativity on the back burner. It was almost like someone gave a shit about me.
Oh yeah, I had FOUR (count ’em motherfucker) paid weeks of vacation, too.
Fast-forward to the Decade of Despair ™ and a lot has changed. True, the Decade of Despair officially ended in 2011, but it has been extended indefinitely in what I’ve come to know as The Bonus Round.
My pay is about the same as I earned in the mid-80s. I shit you not. And I haven’t had a paid day off since the year 2001. Vacation, sick, holiday – whatever. None. Diddly squat. Goose egg. Bupkis.
Health insurance? I only work full time, ya know? Why the fuck would I be worthy of insurance. Don’t make me laugh. If I do I’ll exceed the stress capabilities of my truss and then, well, I’ll need a doctor. Trust me on this. I don’t have $200 on me to see an asshole who will spend three minutes with me giving me bad advice.
But I digress. Since ending The Other Life vacations have been few and far between. Hell, even when I hitched up with Mrs. Abyss the wedding ceremony and honeymoon had to be crammed into a three-day weekend. Monday morning I was right back at it in the shithole.
Someone must have told all of my bosses than an employee stressed to the point of daydreaming 24/7 about swallowing razor blades was the optimal path to productivity, right? It’s the only explanation that makes sense. (That or the universe hates me for daring to exist.)
One time since then I took nine days off in a row. That’s five days “vacation” from work with weekend bookends. Utterly unpaid. It’s a world record that has stood for years. No, I doubt I’ll be able to break it. Not in this lifetime.
But I’m about to tie the record. Yeah, nine more unpaid days off in a row for me. And, since I obviously have so much vacation experience under my belt, I’m going to share a few vacation planning tips with ya. It’s time for me to don my Julie hat. Come aboard, I’m expecting you. I’ll set a course for adventure! If we’re super lucky maybe Doc will even hit on my wife.
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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