workWords cannot describe how much I love Wikipedia. (www.wikipedia.org) Where else could I read about
Matthew Garber dying at the age of 21 from Haemorrhagic Necrostising Pancreatitis? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matthew_Garber) Matthew Garber, incidentally, was the actor who played little Michael in "Mary Poppins," one of my favourite movies when I was wee. My first step was finding out poor Matthew was dead at the tender age of 21, my second step was looking up haemorrhagic necrotising pancreatitis. It is ungood, my friends.
The thing about Wikipedia is if you start reading something, be prepared not to move for a week. You'll start reading one thing and that will lead to another and another and another and you'll keep promising yourself you'll stop soon, empty promises like the ones you made to yourself about self-love and meth, and soon will never come and suddenly you're peeing in soda bottles and "showering" with baby wipes, your fingers frozen to your mouse as you click and learn, click and learn, and...don't go to Wikipedia. It will kill you. Someone help me.
Okay, it's Friday and I'm tapped the hell out. I haven't got much left to write about. I was attacked by an old man in a grocery store and it's really hard to top that until I go to the retirement home and challenge Grandma Moses to a cage match. That will be Sunday and I can't WAIT.
If I were to again hypothetically write something about work, I might tell you a story about a person with bad bowels. I'm of the mind that no one should know about another man's bowels unless one has birthed the owner of the bowels, and then only until the birthee is old enough to care for their own bowels. After that, bowels are a no-go territory with me. If you are into colons, I don't want to know. I want for you to keep it ever so quiet - your colon and your proclivities.
If I work around you in any capacity it goes double: I do not want to know about your bottom. Not in any form or fashion. Yet somehow I find myself in the troubling situation of knowing about my coworker's bad bowels. Because she talks about them all the flimflammin' time.
I imagine if one didn't have a show ass, like I do, and your workhorse ass wasn't functioning properly it would likely be painful and might indeed consume your thoughts. And I would briefly feel bad for you, I would, but. BUT. (Heh, butt. ) I don't want to know the details. Let us please couch such things in "stomach aches" and "distemper" and other VAGUE health complaints. Let us not speak of pushing, scooping, scraping, rototilling, or enemas. Please don't tell me about how big one's pants are now that one is "empty."
And let us not, after one has had a monumental session in the bathroom, come out of the bathroom sweating and carrying a catalog (Garnet Hill!) and require me to "look at this cute bag, look look!" and thrust the catalog in my hands and face because that, madam, is a bathroom catalog, and much like a bathroom book, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bookstore_%28Seinfeld_episode%29) I want no part of it. No part. Its very proximity makes me whir with displeasure.
In another page from The Hypothetical Work Tales of Someone Else, a coworker hypothetically said to Someone Else, "I wish I had been beaten by tribal Indians today instead of coming into work, it would have hurt less."
Whaaat? Why Indians? Why tribal ones? Why not Picts? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Picts) Where is this Someone Else hypothetically working? Hypothetical Hell, that's where. Someone Else is very very happy it's Friday.
The thing about Wikipedia is if you start reading something, be prepared not to move for a week. You'll start reading one thing and that will lead to another and another and another and you'll keep promising yourself you'll stop soon, empty promises like the ones you made to yourself about self-love and meth, and soon will never come and suddenly you're peeing in soda bottles and "showering" with baby wipes, your fingers frozen to your mouse as you click and learn, click and learn, and...don't go to Wikipedia. It will kill you. Someone help me.
Okay, it's Friday and I'm tapped the hell out. I haven't got much left to write about. I was attacked by an old man in a grocery store and it's really hard to top that until I go to the retirement home and challenge Grandma Moses to a cage match. That will be Sunday and I can't WAIT.
If I were to again hypothetically write something about work, I might tell you a story about a person with bad bowels. I'm of the mind that no one should know about another man's bowels unless one has birthed the owner of the bowels, and then only until the birthee is old enough to care for their own bowels. After that, bowels are a no-go territory with me. If you are into colons, I don't want to know. I want for you to keep it ever so quiet - your colon and your proclivities.
If I work around you in any capacity it goes double: I do not want to know about your bottom. Not in any form or fashion. Yet somehow I find myself in the troubling situation of knowing about my coworker's bad bowels. Because she talks about them all the flimflammin' time.
I imagine if one didn't have a show ass, like I do, and your workhorse ass wasn't functioning properly it would likely be painful and might indeed consume your thoughts. And I would briefly feel bad for you, I would, but. BUT. (Heh, butt. ) I don't want to know the details. Let us please couch such things in "stomach aches" and "distemper" and other VAGUE health complaints. Let us not speak of pushing, scooping, scraping, rototilling, or enemas. Please don't tell me about how big one's pants are now that one is "empty."
And let us not, after one has had a monumental session in the bathroom, come out of the bathroom sweating and carrying a catalog (Garnet Hill!) and require me to "look at this cute bag, look look!" and thrust the catalog in my hands and face because that, madam, is a bathroom catalog, and much like a bathroom book, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bookstore_%28Seinfeld_episode%29) I want no part of it. No part. Its very proximity makes me whir with displeasure.
In another page from The Hypothetical Work Tales of Someone Else, a coworker hypothetically said to Someone Else, "I wish I had been beaten by tribal Indians today instead of coming into work, it would have hurt less."
Whaaat? Why Indians? Why tribal ones? Why not Picts? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Picts) Where is this Someone Else hypothetically working? Hypothetical Hell, that's where. Someone Else is very very happy it's Friday.
