So many things to talk about; Number one, Baseball is just something men use to talk about other than what’s really going on. In fact, sports in general is like that. I can’t remember the last time I actually gave a hot crap about any particular sports player or his alleged statistics. Sure I enjoy cheering on the home team but give me a break. These overpaid, cry babies and their game. Good Grief. Try doing my job. “Yeerrrr out!”
Whiskey is mean. Why do we love mean things? I mean, whiskey is like that abusive boyfriend or girlfriend you just can’t seem to get away from. Sure, it’s fun while it’s there but later it’s really just a punch in the face. A punch delivered several times in the face by Chuck Norris. You can’t believe he’s doing it and yet you can’t look away.
French Vanilla. Seriously, do we need so many things made with French Vanilla? My office has two kinds of coffee; the regular coffee, which I enjoy, and the French Vanilla. There’s also the French Vanilla creamer. So you could have a French Vanilla Coffee with French Vanilla Cream and then jam a baguette up your anus. Maybe use a stirrer to get it in there nice and tight. Not that I have anything personal against the French, they’re a lovely people. But I just want the regular coffee. And the baguette.
Spring. Is it here yet? I mean it’s a rainy, crappy day out there and it’s Friday damnit. Stop raining and let’s get to the part where we’re all wearing shorts and standing outside. Like civilized animals.
Hot chicks. I love them. Seriously I do. I just can’t figure out how to make them love me. Is there something I’m missing? Oh yeah, being a dickhole douche wrapper.
Work. I think I’ve said quite a bit about work in the past and I don’t think I have to belabor the point too much. Work, which is meaningful, is awesome. Too bad that’s not what I do for a living. I’ve seen cats with more interesting jobs. Literal cats, rolling around on the floor, have a more interesting job.
Idiots. Don’t call me and leave a voicemail message telling me you got my fax and you’re faxing something back. I’ll get the fax. I don’t need you to call me and tell me that you’ve faxed something. You’re a moron.
Finally, I love you. I love all of you that put up with my ranting and raving about practically nothing. I appreciate the time you spend here and if you had your own blog I’d visit it too. Peace. I’m out. I have to get back to hiding my hang over and pretend to work.
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