I feel it only fair to mention that today, with the Uberlordian entity being in Asia, I have the day off. Yes, I am not at work. I am home, in my pajamas, on the couch, drinking coffee and not being at work. I just thought I'd mention it in the off chance that YOU are at work because I am NOT at work.
Did I mention it's raining out? And I'm not at work? What? I'm thinking of you all, I promise! You know...being at work.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Today's Tragedy
The Uberlord is heading to
Today I found out, while trying to have the hotel arrange a car for him, that he has no reservation there, which is a little alarming since I watched our travel department book it in person last week and because everyone else on the trip is staying there. Oops! He's going to love that.
Turns out the travel people forgot to confirm the booking and now the poor man has to stay at some other 5 star hotel a whole mile away for the first night of the trip as the original hotel is sold out. Oh the humanity. He will suffer greatly and probably catch the cooties in the process.
I've been schmoozing with the people in
What will happen when the Uberlord finds out about this?
Basically, he can suck it up. I hear they have these new fangled things called "cabs" now anyway.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Russian Pie
This morning I got to the Russian Consulate at 8:45 a.m. to wait in a big line with people talking in tongues, to get the Uberlord a Russian visa. The Russians, I have to point out, are in no rush whatsoever. Years of communist queuing for just about everything has rendered them line-lovers. They love to stand in a line and will happily do it all day long.
Well ok, maybe "happily" is not the right word. "Grouchily" that might be the word. Or "begrudgingly".
People kept asking me things in Russian and since the only Russian I know involves Boris and Natasha going to the opera and a smattering of ways to tell someone their mother fucks pigs, I was a little stuck for conversation.
The guy directly in front of me in line was hugely tall, wearing a fur hat and smoking a cigarette. From every orifice! He was probably named "Boris" or "Vladimir" and worked in a chemical plant. He was like the guy you'd draw in a cartoon to represent a stereotypical Russian, minus a great big sickle on his hat. If he had a bottle of vodka in his inside pocket it would be spot on. In fact, I'm pretty sure he did. I think it's illegal not to for Russians or something.
The guy behind me was excitable and elderly - a formidable combination in any language. He was muttering in Russian at the speed of light. I have no idea what he was on about. He might have been drunk off his ass or high for all I know. "I like fairies! You are a doughnut! I am an multidextrous octopus!" Who the hell knows? I'm pretty sure at one point he said the word "womanator" which was slightly alarming, but I could be mistaken. Maybe he just doesn't like the ladies? Either way, I steered well clear of that guy. Womanator indeed.
The officials inside, when I eventually got past the door, were surly as all hell. Maybe they all had partaken in a touch too much Stoli last night? The woman who processed my claim was like a Russian fembot with no facial muscles. She looked like she ate Americans for dinner with a side order of spite. Phew! Lucky I'm European, huh!
I hate to bring everything back to pies, but this is my breakdown of Russians in a nutshell. Or a pie, to be more exact.
You can totally quote me on that in any official capacity you please.
Well ok, maybe "happily" is not the right word. "Grouchily" that might be the word. Or "begrudgingly".
People kept asking me things in Russian and since the only Russian I know involves Boris and Natasha going to the opera and a smattering of ways to tell someone their mother fucks pigs, I was a little stuck for conversation.
The guy directly in front of me in line was hugely tall, wearing a fur hat and smoking a cigarette. From every orifice! He was probably named "Boris" or "Vladimir" and worked in a chemical plant. He was like the guy you'd draw in a cartoon to represent a stereotypical Russian, minus a great big sickle on his hat. If he had a bottle of vodka in his inside pocket it would be spot on. In fact, I'm pretty sure he did. I think it's illegal not to for Russians or something.
The guy behind me was excitable and elderly - a formidable combination in any language. He was muttering in Russian at the speed of light. I have no idea what he was on about. He might have been drunk off his ass or high for all I know. "I like fairies! You are a doughnut! I am an multidextrous octopus!" Who the hell knows? I'm pretty sure at one point he said the word "womanator" which was slightly alarming, but I could be mistaken. Maybe he just doesn't like the ladies? Either way, I steered well clear of that guy. Womanator indeed.
The officials inside, when I eventually got past the door, were surly as all hell. Maybe they all had partaken in a touch too much Stoli last night? The woman who processed my claim was like a Russian fembot with no facial muscles. She looked like she ate Americans for dinner with a side order of spite. Phew! Lucky I'm European, huh!
I hate to bring everything back to pies, but this is my breakdown of Russians in a nutshell. Or a pie, to be more exact.
You can totally quote me on that in any official capacity you please.
Monday, March 24, 2008
What's So "Good" About Monday?
I have spent the entire morning making an org chart in PowerPoint that makes no sense to me whatsoever. For a start, the Uberlord presented me with a hand scrawled version of what he wanted first thing before I'd inhaled any sort of caffeinated product to calm my nerves and judging by the fact it looks like it may possibly have been written by a skittish monkey with the DT's I'm not at all sure he's going to get what he is expecting. It took me half an hour to realize that the rather awesome category of "North American Pies" was actually "North American Pres." meaning "president". My version is always better. I was completely disappointed to discover that there are no pies being represented on the chart at all. I've reviewed the situation, however, and I think I'll live.
He also gave me a bio with his photo on that I am sorely tempted to Photoshop in a ludicrous manner and post, however I am evil but I am not stupid. Usually. Well now and then. OK most days, actually.
Anyway, I had a rather emotionally crazy weekend at the Animal Hospital with my cat and now think I deserve a stiff shot of tequila.
Well this was nice and brief wasn't it?
He also gave me a bio with his photo on that I am sorely tempted to Photoshop in a ludicrous manner and post, however I am evil but I am not stupid. Usually. Well now and then. OK most days, actually.
Anyway, I had a rather emotionally crazy weekend at the Animal Hospital with my cat and now think I deserve a stiff shot of tequila.
Well this was nice and brief wasn't it?
Friday, March 21, 2008
Easter Means Chocolate
Happy pre-Easter, if Christianity's your thing!
However, if you're a Godless heathen like me you appreciate the wonderful miracle that is chocolate eggs. Cadbury's Creme Eggs in particular. When Mr. Cadbury or whoever, invented those little pebbles of sheer joy, someone should have immediately presented him with a medal of honor or something equally appreciative. The same goes for Cadbury's Caramel Eggs - AKA "the caramel orgasm". I'm overjoyed you can get both these Easter items in the United States fairly easily these days, because this eases my mind and pent-up aggression greatly. Now I just have to find a Cadbury's Mini Eggs provider in NYC and I might become very happy indeed! A chocolated Guv'ner is a happy Guv'ner, this is something to never forget, because one day it could save your life.
What the significance of chocolate eggs is at Easter, I have no earthly idea. Maybe it was a giant chocolate egg that blocked the door to the cave where they buried Jesus? Maybe Jesus, awoken from death and a bit hungry and cranky at being locked in a dark cavern, ate his way through the chocolate to freedom? Even if this isn't exactly how the resurrection occurred, I am prepared to stand behind the theory as "credible" purely because I like it. Besides, wouldn't that just be a much more awesome story?
Someone should absolutely combine commercialism and religion and market a solid chocolate Jesus. I'd be all over that.
This just in: The Dark Uberlord is senile. He asked me for a bunch of details yesterday which I not only went over with him, but also printed out a copy and gave it to him. Today he has no recollection of either of those things. And somehow I am not at all surprised.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Crappy Saint Pat's
Since most of the world likes to get all up in my business on a regular basis, I expect it is just sitting back, waiting for a moment to spring forth, big kazoo in hand, and wish me a happy St. Patrick's Day while spilling Guinness all over my t-shirt.
You see, every year at work, some over smiley entity will corner me in the elevator, slap me on the back with a knowing wink and say "I bet you're excited, huh! St. Patrick's Day? I bet you'll be celebrating tonight?" and every year I clear my throat and yell, "For the last fucking time, Dialtone, I AM NOT IRISH!"
Ah yes, tradition, you have to love it. Scotland....Ireland. Two different countries with different accents and an entire sea between them, yet no one can ever tell the difference.
We Scots have Saint Andrew. Sure he's more the "Eat haggis, wear a kilt and dance the Gay Gordons." kindly uncle kind of guy, who wants to bounce you on his knee after a few drams of Glenfiddoch and less of a "Drink yourself into a coma or until you keel over and die!" type of saint, but he has his place. He likes a "wee dram" of malt whisky and he might flash his twig and berries during a particularly exuberant waltz, but he's mainly composed. Unlike St. Paddy and his followers.
I'll tell you one thing though. Not even the real Irish in Ireland celebrate St. Patrick's Day like you drunken American types and for that I'm sure they're eternally thankful. Every year I dodge that damn parade full of patriotic people who've never actually set foot in Ireland and who couldn't find it on a map, dressed head to toe in kelly green and liquored up to the eyeballs, screeching and making giant asses of themselves. Every year I'm walking home, down Fifth Avenue and get cornered by some rubberized, uncoordinated office minion in a disheveled suit and a ridiculous, huge green hat the IRA probably once used as a safe house - a hat that would make even a leprechaun look sane - informing me it is my duty to kiss him in the name of St. Patrick. No, minion, it is not. The Guv'ner protests!
from some wannabe Irish twat's FlickR page
I think the moral of this post is, I hate St. Patrick's Day. Bah humbug. That would be all.
You see, every year at work, some over smiley entity will corner me in the elevator, slap me on the back with a knowing wink and say "I bet you're excited, huh! St. Patrick's Day? I bet you'll be celebrating tonight?" and every year I clear my throat and yell, "For the last fucking time, Dialtone, I AM NOT IRISH!"
Ah yes, tradition, you have to love it. Scotland....Ireland. Two different countries with different accents and an entire sea between them, yet no one can ever tell the difference.
We Scots have Saint Andrew. Sure he's more the "Eat haggis, wear a kilt and dance the Gay Gordons." kindly uncle kind of guy, who wants to bounce you on his knee after a few drams of Glenfiddoch and less of a "Drink yourself into a coma or until you keel over and die!" type of saint, but he has his place. He likes a "wee dram" of malt whisky and he might flash his twig and berries during a particularly exuberant waltz, but he's mainly composed. Unlike St. Paddy and his followers.
I'll tell you one thing though. Not even the real Irish in Ireland celebrate St. Patrick's Day like you drunken American types and for that I'm sure they're eternally thankful. Every year I dodge that damn parade full of patriotic people who've never actually set foot in Ireland and who couldn't find it on a map, dressed head to toe in kelly green and liquored up to the eyeballs, screeching and making giant asses of themselves. Every year I'm walking home, down Fifth Avenue and get cornered by some rubberized, uncoordinated office minion in a disheveled suit and a ridiculous, huge green hat the IRA probably once used as a safe house - a hat that would make even a leprechaun look sane - informing me it is my duty to kiss him in the name of St. Patrick. No, minion, it is not. The Guv'ner protests!
from some wannabe Irish twat's FlickR pageI think the moral of this post is, I hate St. Patrick's Day. Bah humbug. That would be all.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Mind Reading Part Two
Today I get in to a note on my desk that says "Please book my wife and I on flights using the company's companion ticket policy for..." and he gave two sets of dates. And that's all it said. I'm thinking since he couldn't be bothered specifying a destination I'd get him flights to Siberia and rent him an igloo and a sled. He can sit in the sled while his wife dons the reins to pulls it while he whips her and yells "Giddy Up Bitch!". What a fine image. That should get me through the day, I believe.
That was it, I just wanted to vent.
Talking of fine images, I will leave you with this high-larious photo of John Travolta without his weave. Hee!
Dedicated to Beckeye
He's totally gay you know
That was it, I just wanted to vent.
Talking of fine images, I will leave you with this high-larious photo of John Travolta without his weave. Hee!
Dedicated to BeckeyeHe's totally gay you know
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Can You Hear Me Now?
The Überlord comes into my office today and says, “Did you get me those urgent available dates from the London crew for the follow-up meeting next week?”
I looked at him the way a cat regards a bug, scurrying around on the floor before going in for the kill.
“Dates?” I asked him, cautiously. I hate when someone asks about something that immediately rings no bells, except for alarm bells signifying that I might have dropped the ball.
“London crew? Follow up Meeting? Que?”
He looked anxious. “The dates I asked about yesterday!” he said. “I sent an email to the crew for dates and said you’d follow up with them about it today? It’s urgent. I need to know today.”
Oh. I get it. I know exactly what he is talking about now. He is talking about my psychic abilities again.
“Did you happen to…you know…cc me on that email?” I inquired, knowing full well the answer.
He frowned. “I don’t think so…” he said. “I think I just sent it to the London team.”
I tried to think of words in response that weren’t illegal in some parts of the world.
“I can’t actually see those emails unless you send them to me…” I said, sporting a fixed smile that I like to call “My Donnie Darko”. “Therefore, I was unaware you wanted me to do anything. Therefore, I do not have the dates you are requesting.” This is pretty much verbatim of what I said.
What I was THINKING, however, was, “For the love of all that is good, Fucknuts, do I look like Miss Fucking Cleo to you? For the 300th time, I DO NOT READ MINDS.”
Later in the morning, he asked me about his travel plans for the week of the 24th, provoking the slightly alarmed response, “Travel plans? You’re going somewhere that week?” He then looked at his feet and admitted he was indeed going back to Europe but had neglected to mention it to me – the person who makes his travel arrangements.
Yup.
I looked at him the way a cat regards a bug, scurrying around on the floor before going in for the kill.
“Dates?” I asked him, cautiously. I hate when someone asks about something that immediately rings no bells, except for alarm bells signifying that I might have dropped the ball.
“London crew? Follow up Meeting? Que?”
He looked anxious. “The dates I asked about yesterday!” he said. “I sent an email to the crew for dates and said you’d follow up with them about it today? It’s urgent. I need to know today.”
Oh. I get it. I know exactly what he is talking about now. He is talking about my psychic abilities again.
“Did you happen to…you know…cc me on that email?” I inquired, knowing full well the answer.
He frowned. “I don’t think so…” he said. “I think I just sent it to the London team.”
I tried to think of words in response that weren’t illegal in some parts of the world.
“I can’t actually see those emails unless you send them to me…” I said, sporting a fixed smile that I like to call “My Donnie Darko”. “Therefore, I was unaware you wanted me to do anything. Therefore, I do not have the dates you are requesting.” This is pretty much verbatim of what I said.
What I was THINKING, however, was, “For the love of all that is good, Fucknuts, do I look like Miss Fucking Cleo to you? For the 300th time, I DO NOT READ MINDS.”
Later in the morning, he asked me about his travel plans for the week of the 24th, provoking the slightly alarmed response, “Travel plans? You’re going somewhere that week?” He then looked at his feet and admitted he was indeed going back to Europe but had neglected to mention it to me – the person who makes his travel arrangements.
Yup.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Lame Excuses
Someone needs to tell the Dark Uberlord that Monday morning means you ease into the week slowly and gently with much nurturing and care. You don't show up and dump three months worth of crapola on my desk and want all of it now. Not if you value your life and the use of your limbs.
Anyway, while I snarl, complain and delve into this pile of paper madness, it's my day over at the Mustache, so get your ass over there and help me slander the evil cosmos that is '80s music. Yes I did go there. And you know I'm right.
Anyway, while I snarl, complain and delve into this pile of paper madness, it's my day over at the Mustache, so get your ass over there and help me slander the evil cosmos that is '80s music. Yes I did go there. And you know I'm right.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Just Chillin'
I'm all kind of mellow today, peeps. Mellow because I've had nothing to do but be wicked, troll the internetz for all sorts of objectionable fodder, send a trillion offensive emails and annoy the woman in the office next door with my music. It's like the last, poignant day of summer, before you have to give up freedom and return to school. Tomorrow the Uberlord is back from Europe toting boring old expenses that need taking care of and other things of equal joy and interest.
Being bored doesn't make for good entries though, so hey, you can't have everything.
But...
Remember the X-Files? That was a great show. In fact, that was my favorite show. UFOs, scary stuff, sizzling chemistry between the leads, people speaking in hushed monotones - fantastic. Well, I have a secret. I have a special, unaired episode of the X-files. It has everything - sex, intrigue, aliens, people getting it on in the morgue, Clangers, a little fat dude sporting a banana... Seriously, come on over to Buckle Up! and check it out.
It's because you're special. Yes, you are.
Being bored doesn't make for good entries though, so hey, you can't have everything.
But...
Remember the X-Files? That was a great show. In fact, that was my favorite show. UFOs, scary stuff, sizzling chemistry between the leads, people speaking in hushed monotones - fantastic. Well, I have a secret. I have a special, unaired episode of the X-files. It has everything - sex, intrigue, aliens, people getting it on in the morgue, Clangers, a little fat dude sporting a banana... Seriously, come on over to Buckle Up! and check it out.
It's because you're special. Yes, you are.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Guv'ner Gives You An (Anti) Climax
If you want my body
And you think I'm sexy
Come on sugar let me know!
Eff you Rod Stewart, you short, pointy-haired man whore. Get out of my head. I'm letting you know right here, right now, that sexy is not on any list of adjectives or phrases I'd ever use to describe you. "Decrepit" is on that list. So is "tangerine, wrinkled sperm vessel" and "uber annoying ass monkey" but "sexy" not so much. Take your "Hot Legs" and shove them up your tiny, leather-clad ass.
And you're not Scottish either, so quit sullying our good name.
That is the end of this public service announcement.
So...before Rod Stewart burned his incessant, poppy nastiness deep into my brain, earlier this afternoon, I was sitting at work, twiddling my thumbs, basking in the warmth of certain Uberlords being overseas again and having nothing to do but cause lots of trouble, when I heard this sound coming from the elusive corner office. I may have mentioned this office before - it's like a black hole in the middle of office land. It's also about two doors from my office. Stuff happens in that office but no one seems to know what or who is responsible for said happenings. In the past I have heard clucking like a chicken emanating from that particular room and even singing, but the door is always closed. It's my theory that the CIA use it for clandestine beatings and top secret classified experiments. Possibly involving the ghost of Bing Crosby.
Today, while passing it en route to the fax machine, I heard...well...sounds. From behind that door. Sounds of, how can I put this delicately...ladies who enjoy being filmed having foreign objects inserted in their various orifices by oiled up men with mullets, mustaches and the IQ of a fishtank. Or at least that's what I've heard.
I bent down to tie my shoe so I could listen some more to see if I was really hearing what I was hearing when suddenly the door opened and two geezers in suits walked out, carrying a waste paper basket.
In case you're wondering right about now what the exciting end to this story is, can I just say, don't get your hopes set too high. The geezers took that waste basket and headed for the elevators and that's the last I saw of them.
I like to think that waste paper basket contained proof of extra terrestrial life or the launch codes for all the U.S.'s nuclear weapons or something secret and important like that and don't want to consider it might contain soggy Kleenex and the stench of old man desperation.
So, if anyone has any idea what any of this is about, please tell me.
Now back to your regularly scheduled program...
And you think I'm sexy
Come on sugar let me know!
Eff you Rod Stewart, you short, pointy-haired man whore. Get out of my head. I'm letting you know right here, right now, that sexy is not on any list of adjectives or phrases I'd ever use to describe you. "Decrepit" is on that list. So is "tangerine, wrinkled sperm vessel" and "uber annoying ass monkey" but "sexy" not so much. Take your "Hot Legs" and shove them up your tiny, leather-clad ass.
And you're not Scottish either, so quit sullying our good name.
That is the end of this public service announcement.
So...before Rod Stewart burned his incessant, poppy nastiness deep into my brain, earlier this afternoon, I was sitting at work, twiddling my thumbs, basking in the warmth of certain Uberlords being overseas again and having nothing to do but cause lots of trouble, when I heard this sound coming from the elusive corner office. I may have mentioned this office before - it's like a black hole in the middle of office land. It's also about two doors from my office. Stuff happens in that office but no one seems to know what or who is responsible for said happenings. In the past I have heard clucking like a chicken emanating from that particular room and even singing, but the door is always closed. It's my theory that the CIA use it for clandestine beatings and top secret classified experiments. Possibly involving the ghost of Bing Crosby.
Today, while passing it en route to the fax machine, I heard...well...sounds. From behind that door. Sounds of, how can I put this delicately...ladies who enjoy being filmed having foreign objects inserted in their various orifices by oiled up men with mullets, mustaches and the IQ of a fishtank. Or at least that's what I've heard.
I bent down to tie my shoe so I could listen some more to see if I was really hearing what I was hearing when suddenly the door opened and two geezers in suits walked out, carrying a waste paper basket.
In case you're wondering right about now what the exciting end to this story is, can I just say, don't get your hopes set too high. The geezers took that waste basket and headed for the elevators and that's the last I saw of them.
I like to think that waste paper basket contained proof of extra terrestrial life or the launch codes for all the U.S.'s nuclear weapons or something secret and important like that and don't want to consider it might contain soggy Kleenex and the stench of old man desperation.
So, if anyone has any idea what any of this is about, please tell me.
Now back to your regularly scheduled program...
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