Things I Hate: Office Edition

I know you feel me on these, darlings. Let's hate together. Let's love hating together. Naked.

• Grown women who covet stuffed animals.
• Related: Grown women who display stuffed animals and cutesy figurines at their desk. This is not going to get you a husband, girls. And while you're at it, get rid of the plushies from your bedroom, too. Nothing tells a man "Run like the wind" quite like staring into Nemo's dead, plastic eyes while plowing the HR girl.
• The office douche-anova. If I don't fall all over you on my first day, I must be a lesbian. Or, pardon me, 'carpet muncher'.
• When someone finds it perfectly acceptable to let me listen to their diarrhea-induced anal squirts and gurgles. Have a little shame, people. And please-- don't grunt.
  
• The ever-present Asshole with a Bluetooth.
• When management-types say things like: "Getting our ducks in a row", "Playing a little catch-up","Let's touch base", and "Coming down the pipeline".
• Self-righteous kitchen notes. I know my mother doesn't work here, bitch. I left my mug in the sink because I'm fucking lazy.
  

Also-- that's not coffee. That's liquid apathy.

Oh, The Woes of the Middle Class

Dear Resident Manager whom I will, one day, draw and quarter,

Hey there. We have a situation. Since November, the second of the two washing machines on my floor has been broken. Nope-- correction. It has been broken, repaired by your 80-year old husband, broken again, and again repaired. The cycle begins anew every 2 weeks or so. Now mathematics has never been my strongest area of expertise, but it is my calculation that this machine has been broken for 255 of the last 270 days. Clearly, this repair job is ineffective. Actually, I feel strange using the word 'repaired', because we both know this is not what he does. This is the same man who replaced a fuse on my stove... with another fuse from my stove. Now, instead of a malfunctioning right burner, I have a malfunctioning left burner. I blame myself, really. I obviously need to be more specific.

Please, please, please hire a real repairman for the building. I know you love your husband, but he is as useless as a hat full of busted assholes. The man has no clue now to fix shit. My Aunt Nita could do a better job. And she's 98 years old. And she's dead.

I suppose having two washing machines in good working order for a floor with 30+ residents is a lot to ask. Believe me, we've tried to make due. We currently solve the problem as follows: each Sunday, we draw straws to determine who will get to wash their clothes that week. It's kind of fun, actually. When I awake on the Lord's Day, I'm never sure if I'm going to have clean clothes that week, or if I'll have to rotate my wardrobe another 360 degrees. It's terribly exciting, really. It kind of makes me feel powerful and dangerous. Like the sun.

One thing I ask of you, however, is to actually empty out the stagnant wash water from the broken machine. I'm sure you're aware that the machine always breaks mid-cycle, leaving a basin full of grey water. I'm not in love with seeing the floating crust of dirty clothes. You think I'm exaggerating? Observe.

Yummy.

Love,
Michelle

P.S. I'm fucking serious. I will have you drawn and quartered. It hurts.

Freud and Marx Were Right-- We Fetishize Everything

In my search for Cakewrecks, I typed in 'cake' and Google auto-predicted that I might be instead looking for Cake Farts. Sure, Google, you've never led me astray before. I trust you. I'll just click on this link and....

Hmmm. I see. Excuse me, I have to go jump off my balcony now.

WARNING: Links to adult content. Not for the faint of heart. Please don't watch this. Ever.

http://www.cakefarts.com/

Spring Cleaning

Dear Sir,

Firstly, I would like to extend my kudos. I don't know how you were able to get my email address, but clearly you did some top-rate investigative work, and for this, I commend you.

Secondly, thank you. In my daily perusal of my emails, I happened upon your message. Granted, it was in my Junk Mail, but as they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure.

And this, my good man, was indeed treasure. The title you gave to this email is absolute poetry. In fact, I would like to present (in the Dadaist tradition), my first ever Found Poem:

Found Poem Alpha

Remove Toxic Sludge from your Colon.
As seen on Oprah.

Now, I can only attribute your (correct!) foresight to more of that stellar investigative genius. I do have toxic sludge in my colon, and it does need to be removed! Finally, I can now get the colon-refreshing relief that I so sorely need.

Again, thank you so very much. If I can ever repay you for this wonderful gift, please, do not hesitate to ask.

With warmest wishes and

sincerest thanks,

M. Wood.

Restaurant Review: Mother Tuckers

Ok, so I've been here many times. I grew up in Calgary, and this place has been around since before Woody Allen fucked his daughter.

A friend and I decided to go out for dinner, and he left the restaurant up to me. What shall I choose?

Being a red-blooded Canadian girl, I like a piece of meat between my teeth. Steak. But where?

"Hey Ryan, we haven't been to Mother Tuckers in a while. You wanna meet there at 6?" "Sure", he concedes, and the date is set.

Now, a little background: Said friend and I go way back to Grade 8, when one day, he walked into my homeroom classroom wearing a T-shirt that read "Ask me about my cat", with a picture of a kitten peeking out of a coffee mug. I commented on how much I loved it (still do), and we have been friends for lo these past 15 years.

We go out to dinner whenever he's in town (flight attendant), and Mother Tuckers has been one of our 'places' for many years. But for some reason, we stopped visiting the establishment about a year ago. Memory provides no apparent motive, hence my (ill-fated) decision to return.

That was mistake number one. Mistake number two came when we sat down, ordered our dinner via the transgendered server, and skipped off to the salad bar.

Horrors. Absolute horrors. Apparently, since we've been away, the restaurant has rented out much of it's salad bar to a family of fruit flies. I concetrated most of my attention of dry goods, such as croutons, and hoped for the best.

Shortly thereafter arrived the entrees. My scalloped potatoes were covered in brownish-tan chunks. Curious, I asked the server "What's this in the potatoes" and the prompt reply? "I don't know".

"Wait wait wait" I call after her as she walks away, "could you find out for me?" "Ya, ok" she agrees begrudgingly. Upon her return, I am informed of the ingredient in question: "Cheese" she says, "but probably way overcooked". Confident that this has cleared up any doubt surrounding the culinary merit of the dish, she again turns on her heel and walks away.

Left with nothing but my wits and "way overcooked" cheese, I err on the side of safety and decide not to consume the carbohydrate element of the meal. Focusing on my sirloin, I dig in. I didn't know it was possible for meat to be flavourless. Like, entirely deviod of flavour. I add salt. No dice. Pepper. Mmmm, my steak tastes like pepper now.

My friend fared mildly better, but his prime rib looked... off-colour. Nothing really obvious, but, you know when you look at someone's face and you just know they're about to puke? Now you see what I mean.

Upon procurement of the bill, I toddle off to pay my portion by means of debit. I ask the host "Where can I pay this on debit?" and he walks away. I follow. He turns around and sneers "No, wait over there, I'm going to go get it". A wireless debit machine! So modern. But he doesn't come back with a wireless debit machine. He comes back with a second copy of my bill. I explain I've already recieved it from the server. And-- here comes my favourite part of the evening-- he says "Well, you didn't have it in your hand when you came up to me the first time!" and snatches it from my hands. Not having moved more than two feet from where he left me, I certainly did have the bill in my hand. Stunned by the sheer rudeness, I handed him my debit card. He swipes, I punch away, and the transaction is completed.

Later, in the movie theatre, my friend's stomach starts to hurt. Big fucking suprise.

Rating: 2 fluorescent dinner rolls out of 5

Wrong Wrong Wrong

Jesus Christ on a cross. What the hell did you have to smoke for this to be appetizing?

Let's examine each component of this specimen separately.

What I assume to be bread, (however this assumption may very well be as wrong as an ironing board in the kitchen) seems to have been given a greenish tint. I cannot comment as to whether this is the genesis of mould, a food additive extracted from crash victims found near Area 51, or if the tint was added to intensify the redness of the tomatoes slash 'spaghetti'.

I use this term loosely, because it does not resemble any spaghetti I have ever known. It could possibly be better described as earthworms wriggling in the afterbirth of a jack'o'lantern. Have you ever dropped a string of spaghetti in the sink, and then you see it days later, water logged and repulsively swollen? I take comfort in the fact that I don't have to smell it.

The tomatoes are fine. They will help clean out the inevitable clog of goo that will form in your colon after eating this abomination.