Feeling Hungrily Blobby
We pulled it out of the refrigerator’s bottom drawer aka the “Crisper.” Obviously something had gone seriously askew.
Whatever it had been at one time, it was now a swampish bag of goo. Forty shades of swirling green ziplocked in a plastic bag which moved of its own volition.
“Look,” I said in hushed terror. “It moved. It’s alive! Run, honey, run! Save yourself! Remember, I always loved you!”
I threw myself over the bag and that’s the last I remember of having my own identity. I call it the time before The Other.
Yes, it was time clean out the fridge. Household rules dictate that when we are unable to squeeze a single item in without something else being displaced and bouncing off our toe on its way to the floor it must be time.
Then my wife made another shocking discovery.
Nom-Nom Nom-de-Plume Nomenclature
Last night I thought about the boss and clutched my chest in pain. Other people, I guess, refer to this phenomenon as “the drive home.” To each their own!
Easy come, easy go. Another day another feeling like needles are stabbing your ventricles. It’s all in a day’s work. And required per the Employee Handbook.
Recently someone in a comment here on this very blog revealed that they refer to a coworker as The Manwich. (I’m too lazy to go back and look for the author of this absolutely brilliant comment. Speak up and take a bow.)
Giving pet names to coworkers behind their backs is a time-honored technique for workers dealing with the mind-numbing bullshit of their dreary existence in the pursuit of the almighty dollar.
It’s a practice we honor here now on this Feckless Friday.
Today’s challenge is twofold: Tell us about pet names for cretins in your office and/or tell stories about times when someone stepped in it by using the term within earshot of the victim.
Good times!
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