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.
Continue reading →
I know this is the one post my boss will never read. It’s got soap in it. For some people that’s a dirty word.
So I found myself in the home surrounded by fancy anti-bacterial liquid hand soap pump dispensers, apothecary-style, of the Victorian era. They were made from fancy distressed metal with bumpy textures that, I imagine, were supposed to be trendy in some sort of way.
Get your ass down to the nearest Pottery Barn or Crate & Barrel and you can get a few of your own.
Haven’t you got a clue? It was Mr. Abyss, in the lavatory, with the soap dispenser. That’s how that bitch Mrs. Peacock got what was coming to her. We all knew Abyss was a cleaner. Personally [sunglasses off] … [pause] … I wash my hands of the whole affair. [scream]
Never mind that plastic refillable dispensers cost something like 42 cents each, much less than the value of the human lives that were spent making them. Why bother with trifles like that. This is your home, dammit! Your castle! You have gots to have soap pumps that are distinguished and worthy of the setting where you throw your worn underwear on the floor.
How much would you pay for elegance like this? $10 per dispenser? Knave! $49.99? The realm approacheth. How about $99.99 each? Now you are talking, Sir Knight!
Finally I could go all classy and shit will I went anti on the bacteria on my filthy mitts.
But there was one wee little problem. The fancy pumps didn’t work. Cue an Abyss-style DIY Project! I’m the man and I’ll show you how.
Continue reading →
My fellow employees (aka compatriots or victims or cohorts or The Cabal) and I have, quite by accident, I assure you, formed an informal association of which we are all now members. Management is, of course, by definition, excluded and not even allowed to know that our little group exists.
We’re calling our little ragtag band of rebels Fight Back Club.
Like any effective club, we have a few simple rules.
- The first rule of Fight Back Club is never share personal information with management.
- The second rule of Fight Back Club is never share personal information with management. Seriously. If you do they will save it up and use it against you. Someday. It will happen. That’s the way management is.
- Club members will alert each other when management is near, usually within hearing distance. Our code for this is “tippy toe.” (A tip of the hat to our honorary member, George Costanza.)
- Our dead brothers and sisters shall be made into bars of soap.
- When a manager does something dumbass the incident must be shared with all other club members.
- Fight Back Club will exist as long as it has to.
- If this is your first time being employed at the Shit Hole, you have to fight back.
- Club motto: “This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”
- Secondary motto: “Only after disaster can we be resurrected.”
- Club mission statement: “Fuck off with your sofa units and string green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let… lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”
- Club pledge of allegiance: “Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.”
- Club Charter (in entirety): “You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.”
- Club Aliases: We also informally use the club names “Island of Misfit Toys” and “The Wretched Refuse.”
Membership has its privileges.
Most every day I do something unusual. Well, most every day. Usually on the days I decide to leave the house. You know – go out in public and shiznit.
This unusual thing I do is clean myself with soap and water. I generally try to make myself presentable and put actual effort into things like how I smell. Do I want to smell especially delicious? No, I couldn’t care less about that. On the other hand, I don’t want to reek like a hungry bung hole, either.
That means I try to wash off most of my body odor, brush my teeth, have fresh breath and put on clean clothes. I’m no Mr. GQ, in fact, I’m pretty much live my life as if wrinkles are the new cool, but having a dumpy appearance is my problem. Smelling disgusting is everyone’s problem.
I know life sucks and all, but can you at least put some effort into not making me puke if I’m unlucky enough to encounter you on this giant blue marble we call home? I swear to God that some people wake up and say to themselves, “I think I’ll put in extra effort to be disgusting today. I’m going to live like I’m trying to win an ugly contest.”
When I say that trying to not smell disgusting is something unusual, that is based on my empirical observations. It is based on the number of people I meet on a daily basis that smell so disgusting that literally provoke my gag reflex. Come on, people! Can’t you make any effort at all?
I want to ask them if they can do me a favor. You see, I’ve never in my entire life smelled a dead body (or what the cops call a DB.) So the next time I’m watching “CSI” perhaps they can do me a solid and stop by my crib during a particularly grisly scene to give the experience that extra boost of realism so I can really get into my favorite show. Just think of it as surround sound home theater for the nose!
Ah, America. The land of the freedom. Some of our most cherished freedoms include the right to be an asshole and the right to smell like a steaming pile of shit. Your freedom should fucking end where my nose begins.
Let’s be honest here. 99% of the time when I’m talking about someone who reeks I’m talking about a smoker. I’ve known many smokers in my life who, for some strange reason, never reeked like a tobacco factory. They cared about their appearance and took care of themselves and smoked outside and for some reason the smell wouldn’t glom onto them like Tiger Woods on classy women.
I don’t know why, but some smokers are more smell “sticky” that others. And my sweet Lord it can be bad. It really makes a statement when you walk through a room and the vomit-inducing odor hangs around for half an hour. Seriously. Clean yourself up.
And more importantly, if you smell that bad, how can you not fucking know it? I can imagine only two possibilities. Either you know about your odor and you just don’t give a shit or somehow you remain completely clueless, perhaps because you destroyed any smelling capability in your nose years ago. I find it completely inconceivable that someone could smell like that and not be aware, but I guess anything is possible.
Perhaps I’ll make my own YouTube video someday. It will feature me (with off-screen bodyguards) asking reeky motherfuckers, “Why do you smell so goddamn disgusting?” I guess that would make me a street scientist of sorts, eh? Those would be some interesting results I’m sure.
All hail freedom and the never-ending onslaught on my nose.