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...
