Archive for the 'Work' Category
If my co-worker had his memorial service at an Olive Garden
UseYourHandsBlog (3:19:35 PM): when you die, make your wife have your memorial at the olive garden.
HallandOatsLover (3:19:48 PM): wow
HallandOatsLover (3:20:37 PM): “Joe was like the olive garden. but instead of an unlimited amount of breadsticks, he gave us an unlimited amount of love.”
UseYourHandsBlog (3:21:07 PM): “and smart-assery. and beefs. requiescat in pace, sweet prince.”
HallandOatsLover (3:21:59 PM): “now he’s swimming in the minestrone that is heaven.”
UseYourHandsBlog (3:22:32 PM): “and drinking the fine wine that is the blood of jesus. Joe is probably, right now, drunk on jesus juice.”
HallandOatsLover (3:23:44 PM): “his life was like the layers on this lasagna: saucy and satisfying”
UseYourHandsBlog (3:24:40 PM): “Did you ever hear him play the accordion? It was like velvet. Like this velvety alfredo sauce atop romano-crusted chciken.”
HallandOatsLover (3:25:57 PM): “he and sam went together like Chianti and scampi”
UseYourHandsBlog (3:27:24 PM): “they always wished to visit Tuscany, like the Olive Garden chefs at their summertime Tuscany retreat, where they learn how to make authentic Italian delicacies like Chocolate Volcano Cake and Chicken Fingers.
HallandOatsLover (3:27:31 PM): “this waitress may want to put crushed black pepper on our salads, but there was no need to enhance the salad that was Joe’s life.”
UseYourHandsBlog (4:12:26 PM): “Joe was full of surprises. in that way, hewas similar to our waiter Tyrone who just gave me a hand job in the bathroom for an extra tenner. But different, for Joe was no handjob king. A duke, maybe.”
HallandOatsLover (4:15:32 PM): “…where the fuck is the waiter with our bill, I’m supposed to meet someone at Chili’s for some ‘ritas…that fucking waiter is unattentive ot our needs as Joe was to Sam’s. No wonder she ran off with that yoga instructor…the yoga instructor…who was like…um….this to-go box….”
UseYourHandsBlog (4:16:41 PM): “This penne arrabiatta always gives me the shits. I gotta get out of here. Can we just play “Dust in the Wind” on these recorders and get out of here?”
HallandOatsLover (4:18:03 PM): “…what?…we’re here to talk about Joe?…I know…fine, I gotta take a shit. Joe’s like that shit, in that I’m glad when it’s out of my system.”
UseYourHandsBlog (4:19:50 PM): “Fuck, man, fuck, Joe was a good dude, you know — can I have more Chainti, Mr. Motherfucking hand job? Thanks.
Chickydoodles, I’m going to miss that kid.”
HallandOatsLover (4:20:59 PM): “aaaaah”
HallandOatsLover (4:21:44 PM): “Hey Tony, you got a bread stick I wouldn’t mind covering in sauce.”
UseYourHandsBlog (4:21:48 PM): “burp”
Comments are off for this postShit I Wrote During Client Meetings
“Fresh mountain air,” puffed Felicia as she stomped up the hill. “That’s what I need.”
She spat and sputtered, then collapsed on a stump trailside. Felicia thrust her pack to the ground and stretched out.
“This feels exactly like a cigarette ad,” she thought, and then reached for her Kools.
Trina always wondered what it would be like to murder something. She started to volunteer at a cat shelter. Trina loved to pet the kittens and feel their little hearts beat under her hand. When she was sure she wouldn’t be caught, Trina would hide in a closet, with the light off, and a kitten in her hand. But she could never quite do it. Because even in the mostly dark, she could still see the glimmer in the kitten’s eyes.
Comments are off for this postThe Unwittingly Clever Placement of My Desk
I burned my fingerprints off in the fourth grade during a science fair project. I was testing different types of fabrics to see which was the most naturally fire-retardant (wool, it turned out) and — oh, wait. That wasn’t how I burned my fingerprints off at all!
Someone had left a metal pot lid on top of a burner. And the burner was on. I was doing dishes and grabbed the pot lid, whichi fused instantly to the skin on my fingertips. I flung it off and the lid landed on the kitchen linoleum. Knowing that my father would rather have my hands burned than the linoleum, I picked it up again and threw it into the sink. And for a few years after that, my fingerprints were smudgy.
This is around the time that I developed a fascination with the Mafia. I loved anything about the Mob and had a vague idea that I could be a famous female hitman. Hitwoman. And I’m not sure if it is because of this weird childhood fancy or innate paranoia, but to to this day I have a hard time sitting with my back to a door.
And here’s where the title of this blog entry comes into play.
I sit about fifteen feet away from the back door to my office, which is in constant use because it is close to the bathrooms. Every time it is about to be opened from the outside, it makes two preemtive beeps. And I peek out from between my opaque office divider to see who it is. Although it is always one of my twoscore of coworkers. Sometimes they see me peek out. We make eye contact and then look away again. I am reassured.
This is one of the many reasons I enjoy working here. Another is free Diet Coke.
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