Saturday, July 31, 2004
So, the OMFUG family has grown again. As I sit here, there is an animal of the canine variety licking peanut-butter off my sack. I jest, I jest...there's no peanut butter.
the actual dog. We don't have any pix yet.
Yeah, that little bugger was found tied to a bench, abandoned. One of Mrs. 'FUG's friends found him, and we took him in. He's pretty malnourished, and has a few types of worms and fleas. But worst of all, he's been abused a bit. I don't understand people who hurt animals... I mean, he's a very calm, quiet puppy (vet says about 6 months old) and gets along fine with the cats. He's not house broken, but seems to be catching on pretty quickly. So why would you beat him/scream at him? I mean, I'm all for whuppin on people because, well, they know better and are capable of being better meatbags than they are. And most of them don't take the time to pull thier heads out of thier asses for more than a few seconds at a time. But animals... they only behave as well as you train them, but they can be pretty loyal. Sure, there are rotten apples here and there, but for the most part they're made that way. Take our new addition, for example. He appears to be half lab, half pit-bull. Yet he's not aggressive at all, and is actually afraid of the cats. Pits have to be made aggressive, mean and a threat to people-- they're not born that way. Hey, you know what,? Come to think of it, neither are people. Parents, quit fucking up your kids!
Anyway, welcome Lucky, the newest member of the family 'FUG. He's just like his dad...an eatin', sleepin', poopin' machine.
Monday, July 26, 2004
I was slacking off today (what else is new) and playing Family Feud on my NES emulator here at Club Fed. I actually had typed in the answer in the below screenshot before I realized there was no way it would be a right answer. Which only says to me that the surveys they use for that show are fake, because any self respecting man sees this as a hobby.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Scene: standing outside, chatting with co-workers. Basically, wasting all your taxpayer dollars and loving it by bitching about how much we loathe this monument to evil. All of a sudden, like a chariot from the heavens sent to rescue me from unrelenting boredom and job-influenced suicide, a fire truck appears. Gods, can it be true, has someone snapped and started torching the building? My heart quickens in anticipation. The truck stops right in front of the entrance to my wing. Sweet! But there would be no fire in Mudville this afternoon.... instead, 3 guys carrying medical bags get out and race towards the building. I do mental somersaults. Maybe someone finally went postal! Exccellent. Silently tallying the bodycount of my useless (and now hopefully charred) co-workers, I suggest that we follow the medical guys. We do, and are joined by others along the way. And so, the corporate deathride begins.
Point of history: people croak here all the time. One guy died in the morning and no one noticed he was bloating until the afternoon....after rigor mortis was setting in. Another went out for surgery, and died the day he set foot back in this government hellhole. The plain fact is that the human body is not built to withstand the physical abuse we take here. I mean, it's HARD to bounce your head off a desk all day in frustration and not have some lasting effects. Not to mention the carpal tunnel I'm developing from constantly having to bitch-slap the ignorant zombies wasting my air here.
Going into my wing, it was eerily silent. I was still trying to figure out which one of my co-workers I wanted to bite it most when it hit me-- it was no one here. Damn it. Even the guy who got caught sleeping at his desk with porn up on his moniter was still breathing. Cursing my foul luck, I led the group up a floor. Still nothing. That's ok, none of us work in that wing. One more floor... ah, I hear the sweet sound of hurried voices and see sheeple standing about gawking, women clutching thier chests and men soberly.... uh....well, men just kind of being nonchalant. The other guy in our little party works in this wing...he had won the corporate lottery. Unfortunatly, everyone in his wing is cool, so were were suddenly in the position of not wanting anyone to have actually shuffled off this mortal shit-coil. Turns out something was wrong with one fo the guys who has a muscular disorder... I think he fell. But since the medical people and fire truck are already here, well.... I wouldn't want them to have come all this way for nothing....
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
So one of my friends wrote to me to tell of his job working for UPS. Sounds like fun:
Hell, I'd swab anuses at this point as long as it paid $18/hr. The whole night warehouse scene is getting tiring, not to mention the fact that I'm working in the freezer now (yes, a gigantic -20F freezer). So now not only do I have to run around sweating like a h0m0, I'm doing it in a freezer where I sometimes find my smelly leaky body frozen to a metal pole when I'm not careful. Twice now when I've been really gushing and forgot to immediately wipe my face dry, my eyelids froze shut. Yep. I can now say I've been to the other side and don't like it one bit.
In other news, I had the flight from hell coming back from California the other day. I got stuck sitting in a middle seat. Not terrible normally, nad the person to my left was fine. However, to my right the airline has seated Moby Passenger. This guy was fucking huuuuuge. He was so fat the armrests wouldn't go down between us, and his girth literally flowed OVER the divider so I couldn't work the controls for my in-flight headset without creating scaffolding out of plastic knives to prop up Tubzilla's gut. That, in itself, would have been barely tolerable on a 3 hour flight. But oh no, God was not done mocking me yet.
About 10 minutes in, Capt. Bloato popped out a portable DVD player. Now, he can see that everyone around him has headphones oon. a normal, rational person would possibly, through much sweat and furrowing of brow, woullf possible forge the mental connection that the airline had supplied these wonderous personal audio device to everyone inthier seats. However, in a stunnign display of Neadnerthalims, this mental midget looked around, shrugged, and went about his business. Did I mention he was talking to himself the whole time, mainly about how inconsiderate it was of the airlines to have such small seats? Anyway, he pulled out a DVD that chilled me the very marrow. Rush. Live in Rio. I quickly got over my fear, however, as I realized that even without him using head phones I wouldn't be subjected to that aural abortion because I had MY headphones on, and my scaffolding in place so I could turn up the in-flight crap-utainment up as loud as I wanted. BZZZZZZZZZZ. Wrong. The in-flight audio cut out. Shit. In that instant, I knew my soul was lost.
2. Fucking. Hours. All Rush, all the time. Add to that the fact that tubby was snapping his fingers and rippling his girth, all the time making comments like "Yeah. YEAH. That shit is tha real joint, yo." So I did the only thing I could..... I carved him up into tiny little pieces and crammed him into a dozen airsickness bags. I'm amazed that, with tenacity, one can even saw bone with those little plastic knives.
Next news item: the car. I totaled my beloved Celica a few months ago, and bought a used Altima. DON'T DO THAT EVER. It's a piece of shit, and I hate every single thing about that car. When I lef the dealer, I stopped for gas a few blocks away. It kept clicking the pump off while I was filling it..... confusing. When I went to start it, it wouldn't even turn over. To make an incredibly long story short, I had to have the dealer replace the battery immediatly. Also, it shuddered like hell at about 60 MPH, so I took it in for an alignment only to find that one of the tires had a broken belt and both inner tie-rods were shot. Dealer puts a new tire on it.... except the place he made me drive to to have it mounted was suffering from a broken machine, so I had to drive to a place by my house and have the thing mounted at my expense. I also replaced the tie rods, also at my expense. Foolishly, I thought all was well. BZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Get used to the sound of that buzzer. It's kind of a theme in my life with the car from hell.
The next few days were ok, until I had to get gas again. Same problem happened-- pump kept clicking off. Now, being a man of science and reason, I had figured out how much gas I needed to fill the tank based on the volume information given in the manual. So I did that. As soon as I took the nozzle away, my car pulled a Peter North and spewed gas EVERYWHERE. Flusteded, I hauled ass outta there. Er, that is, I tried. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. You see, the car wouldn't start again. I had to foul the plugs to get it to run. This problem persisted, and the car began it's cycle of in the shop, out of the shop. Happily, this was all at the dealer's expense. After it was "fixed" for the 80th time, and after failing 3 NJ state inspections for emissions reasons, I had enought. I told the dealer that the Satan-mobile ws officially his problem and demanded a new car. I'm picking up my new car toninght-- a 95 Maxima with leather, heated seats. Now I can pre-heat my ass for pounding on the way to work in the winter.
Last bit: We ordered a pool table finally. A nice Brunswick slate table. So all of you coordinationally-retadred cue fondlers out there practice up... I'll whoop your asses any time.
