Sometimes a rider leaves her room key on purpose. Or so I assume. This wasn’t that time.
The thing about the über diet is that what it lacks in calories, taste or substance, it makes up for in lowered Coors Light tolerance. That explains the fact of responding to 2007’s “back in the saddle” girl’s stupid text.
I have no explanation for failing to call her to order a nostalgic booty call, which beer-goggled its way onto my late night social radar. I’m just glad it stayed a nightmare theory. I would hate to have to chew off my
other arm this morning.
After months of delay and unequivocal efforts to make things smaller and cut out the larger fish from the discussion, the “final statement” and “conclusion” has been delivered in the form of a conference call.
The basic message from National: There was no misconduct, get it through your thick fucking skull.
Also: It’s in the past! It doesn’t matter!
Also: You fucked up! You trusted us!
Fuck you, National. No wonder you are despised. You did fuck up. You did take liberties with the facts presented by the subsidiary, and it did a shitty self-serving job using the powers entrusted to it. You screwed us over.
This was not about civil liability. It was about fraternal honor. You lack the courage to even say “sorry” or “we should have done better.” No accountability. No contrition. No character.
The ad hominems on those who dare point out the shortcomings? No brotherhood.
I will honor my oaths, and maintain my brotherhood with my chapter, but I am done with you fuckstains. National is dead to me.
For most of the last 20 years or so, my kids would ask me about tattoos. My grandpa had a
prison homemade one, my brother has several. I would always tell them I was not a big fan of them getting tattoos – as my children, they were perfect as is.
HOWEVER, if they decided to get inked, think about a few things: Continue reading “Tattoo You”
You and your “get yourself another beer.” And your “yeah, you can take a couple with you.”
A girl gave me her phone number. I probably shouldn’t have called her. I had a different girl’s number; she had the sense not to pick up.
Texting Pro Tip: texting “sleeping” means you’re not.
By this point, supper seemed pointless. Sleep seemed like the least ridiculous option- fewer apologies and retractions to issue. But, thanks to Ray’s other guests, the usual “get close but don’t get laid” dream wasn’t queued up. I would have even settled for the “time to finish the last job/class/assignment that you didn’t even start” dream.
No, I get to go down memory lane for my nightmare. First I am waking up to a naked woman sliding over me. Rather than open my dream eyes, I try to guess who it is by feel and shape. This could be fun. But, surprise! It’s her. Continue reading “Goddam You, Ray”
You were nearly full last night. You’re now empty and waiting impatiently for the recycle truck. Why the change? It’s not like there are unregulated consumers making my stuff disappear. Continue reading “Dear Empty Bottle of Expensive Hipster QuasiVodka”
Actually, Eric the fuckface inspired the title. This asshole decided to hoard work. He checked out 25% of the remaining work in a project. No one else could work it. Then he took a break because “fuck you, I got mine.” This after we all got an email saying once your batch is done, you’re done. So, the people wanting to work hit the road, and selfish Eric milks the clock.
Fuck you Eric. Continue reading “Wanna Make $14 the Hard Way?”