Archive for August, 2008

Play The Game

August 27, 2008

Everyone’s all about video games nowadays. Well guess what, I suck at video games. I always have. I used to find a lame one I sort of liked and stick with it for about seventeen years till it bored even me. And it was always the crappiest game like Sonic the Hedgehog, full of catchy hypnotic, highly annoying music and bright colors that would induce acid flashbacks and where I’d get to go around collecting gold rings with gay abandon till some bastard little spiky beetle type thing would smash into me and make me drop them all. Fuck those spiky beetle things, man, I hate those. I am over those little shitheels.

Then I used to play “Doom” sometimes. I couldn’t tell you if I was any good at it because after about ten seconds I would take on the exact shade of an under ripe banana and vomit on my cargo pants. It’s hard to waste bad guys when your innards are busy becoming outards. Games that induce motion sickness are not my friend even if they do promise the chance to blast several shades of cak out of any opponent, which, as you can guess, the Guv’ner is all about. It is just not meant to be.

I tried playing with Microsoft’s flight simulator for a while because I love planes and airports and all that business. I do, however, hate to fly so this seemed like a fair alternative. Soaring to wherever the hell I want in the world without actually leaving my armchair! Awesome squared.

Or not. I wasn’t up for starting off easy by flying a gentle little Cessna over the Hudson River on a tourist sightseeing trip or something simple like that. No. I wanted to commandeer a big, fuck-off sized 747 right over Manhattan and all the way to Europe. How hard can that be, right? Seriously. You get it in the air and point it east, all you need is a compass and some good cheer.

On my first attempt to take off I crashed. Right slap bang into the control tower at JFK. I mean there’s a 5 mile long, quarter mile wide runway right in front of me but I can’t find it, however a little control tower somewhere to the side is no problem for me at all. The second time I hit the grass and started a fire. Oops. When I finally made it into the air I had no idea which way was up and happily floated upside down till I crashed into the ocean. * Then I spent a happy hour trying to detect some famous landmarks of merit so I could smash into them, because crashing mythological planes into cyber versions of buildings seemed like a fun, innocent thing to do at the time before that shit started for real in the land of the T word. This was all before nine eleven I hasten to add, I’m not crass or anything.

I guess the moral here is, should you ever find yourself on a plane with me and both pilots mysteriously die from like…the plague or something…leaving me to fly the aircraft, it’s probably best to make sure you’re pre-armed with something small and sharp so you can slit your throat/wrists at any given moment to save prolonging the agony. There are worse things than ** motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane is all I’m saying.

So yeah. I’ll stick to my boring-ass old school computer games like Jewel Quest and Puzzle Express (shut up) and let you guys do the big, grown-up video games.

* I would never condone ACTUALLY crashing planes into buildings, honestly, except in cyber form where it is hella fun.
**This joke was topical in 2006 probably, thanks

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Gary Glitter Sets an Example

August 21, 2008

Child molesting glam-rocker Gary Glitter has something to declare at customs.  Oh don’t look at me like that, it’s funny.

Gary Glitter picks up some Chinese takeout en route back to the UK

Gary Glitter gets some takeout en route back to the UK

Random Nonsense Just For You

August 19, 2008

I went swimming at the weekend because it was as hot as the inside of an Olympian’s gym shorts.  I love to swim or just basically flail around attractively in the water while waves bash the hell out of me and force their way up my nostrils to make me splutter in a most ladylike manner, while trying to drag my shorts down around my ankles because no, right now I do not have a swim suit.  I also, despite the factor 70 “fuck you” strength sunscreen, still managed to get some burn on my upper arms and nose.  Basically I could coat my nose in peanut butter, gauze and whatever the hell that stuff is they make astronaut suits out of and I’d still get a burn there.  I’m a pasty white enigma ladies and genitals. Envy me.

Usually on sunny days I resemble a mean alcoholic.  You can spot me in a crowd by my large, red conk.  It’s like a warning beacon.  I could probably get employment by the coast guard to stand on top of cliffs to warn ships off the rocks.  I burn, is what I’m saying.  Religiously.  My hair also lightens up and I almost look like a beach blonde Aussie surfer.  It clashes awesomely with my lobster red nose and shiny forehead.   It’s even MORE attractive than it sounds.

Still it was awesome because I like the water and I like summer and I aim to squeeze every last drop of sunshine out of it before it gets cold and I start to sulk for four months and whine about being cold.  Basically this happens the second the mercury drops below 50 degrees.  I wasn’t born to be cold, oh no.  Still, every year I suck it up and dream about balmy summer nights while wrapped in a giant fleece sweatshirt and a frown.

Then, to start the week right, last night was what I call a “satisfyingly fat night” in that I spent it in bed eating brownies, crackers and cheese and watching “South Park”.  I mean I defy the Queen to have had a more luxurious, ass-fattening evening than THAT.  Go on Queenie, I defy you.

Random Wednesday Stuff

August 13, 2008

* some “lady” content

I’m in the laundry room today, frowning under the weight of the monumental decision of, “Will my bra make it through a non-delicates cycle?” when a woman decided I was her long lost friend.  I met her last time  I did laundry and she might as well have sat me down with a 100 strong questionnaire on who I was, what was I doing there and what did I do, etc.  I mean nice lady, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus H. on a pogo stick.  Cease the yapping, lady!  She was an older, Asian lady and she liked to talk like I enjoy cake.  This is Guv’ner hell.  I like to grunt.  And even then I’m selective.  Especially while folding my underwears.  Yes, I fold them, and?

Talking of underwear, I bought a ton of Hanes  3-packs of boy shorts a short while ago.  All cute and soft and girly boxer-shorty.  And the fuckers keep on busting on me.  Now I know my butt isn’t anorexic but it’s not the size of Texas either and the shorts are kind of loose so why the elastic keeps splitting is anyone’s guess.  Panty ghosts?  Phantoms with scissors in the laundry room?

Cheap workmanship much?

I bought a bunch of Victoria’s Secret underwear around the same time in their sale and those are going strong.  However, to bring up a delicate subject, ladies, is it just me or do some of their panties have unfathomably skinny gussets?  I mean like a little, tiny peninsula of fabric that would break in a breeze?  That’s just not right.  A gusset should be like a giant kite swamping and protecting the principality of your netherlands not a tiny, anorexic sliver of fabric that gives you a stupendous front wedgie every time you move.  Or do I just have an unfeasibly wide hoo ha?  No.  I do not.

I already wish I hadn’t started this topic.

I also had a badass dream last night about being in a giant elevator on the 260th floor and this elevator was suspended by only one wire in the center so it swayed around alarmingly.  Even more fun – the floor was soft like a trampoline!  Yes, really!  I don’t know what goes through my mind sometimes, I swear, but I blame watching “Paranormal State” before going to sleep.  Because I could not possibly be that warped all on my own steam.

The Quick Brown Horse Jumps Over the Frustrated Secretary

August 8, 2008

There are a bunch of mutant freaks out there who can type 140 words a minute. Imagine that – fingers flying like fan blades in all the right places and not an error in sight. Those people -and some of you might be members of this elite team of alien superbeings, in which case, SCREW YOU GUYS – are miraculous wonders of humanity.

Now I have been touch typing for maybe 15 years since I got bored tapping on two fingers and taught myself and I’m fairly speedy and decently accurate (accurate at correcting errors at least!) but I’m not in that super human range of the people mentioned above. I know I can type 90 words a minute on an average. I know this because I have transcribed for a living and my times are slick, y’all. 90 is good but not super-good. I can probably squeeze out 100 if all the words are fairly short and maybe even 110 if they’re all ‘a’, ‘the’ or ‘or’. Ha.

Having said that, my ego just deflates the second I see a typing test. I hate those goddamn things. You know the ones I mean – where you have to type what you see on the screen in front of you EXACTLY – ‘exactly’ meaning every space, capital letter, piece of punctuation must be identical.

“So what?” you say. Well I’ll tell you if you’ll just shut up for a second. I suck at those tests. My brain gets all nervous, turns my fingers into like…giant CARROTS…and I proceed to spend three intense minutes making every error known to man. And you can’t correct stuff! When you type normally, you make a mistake, your brain knows it before you even do it and you correct it swiftly and automatically, but those typing tests? Mais non! You attempt to make the correction you get another error. Mamanfuckers.

Also, some of those tests subscribe to the clearly misguided notion that there’s only one space after a period. Hello? No. I hear that’s a new-fangled way of doing it but I’m a child of the 1980s people, I’m old school and if there aren’t two spaces after a period you need to be flogged with a salty whip. I’m just saying, because some of those software programs serve it up one way and some the other. WTF?

Then I get pissed because the smug, self-righteous computer software thing gloats “WELL DONE GUV, YOU TYPE 62 WORDS A MINUTE, AREN’T YOU FREAKING SPECIAL FOR A RETARDED PERSON?” and you are pretty certain you heard it snort. Then you pick up a sledgehammer (that you keep in your backpack for such emergencies) and beat seven shades of shit out of that computer while growling like a wolverine.

I hate typing software. That’s where I’m going with this. I might add a pie chart to this later as I’m feeling inspired. And a touch bitter.

Fond Memories

August 4, 2008

Something reminded me today of the moment I first realized I hated the Uberlord and his over entitled, giant ego. I may have mentioned this before but if I did, pretend I didn’t and just suck it up, ok? Ok.

It was my first couple of days working at the company and for him in particular. He wanted to get a couple of his team members together for a chat about some rubbish or other, so he said to me, “Order coffee and half a dozen doughnuts for the chat”.

Now call me old-fashioned if you want, but when someone gives you a direct, specific sounding order like that one, your work is pretty much cut out. So I contact our cafeteria who do the catering and ask for half a dozen doughnuts and a large pot of coffee, figuring he and his two buddies will be well taken care of.

Imagine my surprise to find the “Chat” turned out to be a full-blown meeting in the conference room with 13 attendees all dying for coffee and doughnuts (I mean why else attend a boring meeting about progress reports, right?). That works out, for you math buffs out there, as less than half a doughnut per person and a nice little demi-tasse of coffee that wouldn’t satisfy a wood sprite.

When people commented on the lack of snackage, the Uberlord proceeded to make fun of me in front of everyone – “The Guv ordered the snacks, but she’s new and hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet.”

That old pile of rancid flesh.

I calmly said, “You asked me to get half a dozen doughnuts and some coffee, so I got half a dozen doughnuts and some coffee. You didn’t mention the 13 people thing at all!”

“Well you need to anticipate these things better.” he replied.

I spent the next ten minutes in that room, red as a lobster, fuming and “anticipating” all the sharp, metal objects I’d like to wedge up his anus with a sledgehammer and from that moment on I hated the man with a violent passion.

It never really improved. People would tell me on a weekly basis, “Oh you work for the UBERLORD! You are so lucky, he is SO NICE!”

No. No he isn’t nice. He’s nice to YOU, sure because he doesn’t know you and has an image to project. He’s the king of schmoozing because who knows, he might need you for something one day. It’s all about appearances. To me he’s vague, he asks for things he doesn’t really want then complains when he gets what he asked for and conveniently “forgets” ever telling me in the first place in a really passive aggressive, head-bashingly irritating way (“Well if you say I told you that I GUESS I must have but I really don’t remember, maybe you should double check these things with me first…”).

Anyway, it’s afternoon and I’ve had no cake in about three days so I’m feeling the hate today. Suck it up Uberlord you old fucktard.