monster sarcasm rally

Who needs television?

[Early morning in the office. The Ferengi is sitting at her desk, ignoring the Sarcastrix as she enters.]

S: Morning.
F: [grunts]
S: [Arrives at her desk. Sees the print-out of the daily publication on her desk, which the Ferengi has printed for her to read.] Oh, it's a big one today. Looks like eight pieces.
F: No.
S: Oh, I must have been mistaken.
F: Yes.
S: What do you mean there aren't eight? There are eight.
F: That is not a lot.
S: It's more than we've had lately. It's all been ones and twos for the past two weeks.
F: [Makes disgusted face]

_________________________________________

Darnit! Where's my Dawn? If I have to play Tim, I deserve a Dawn.

Update:
She's also mad at me because she tried to add a new executive to an external computer system, but couldn't because she got a Reuters error code. I should have dealt with that in advance, obviously.

She's also mad at me for not telling her [something blindingly obvious about how to do her job].

She's also mad at me for not telling her that by typing a date into the front page of a document, she was not changing anything in our website. You know, because we don't have a psychic website that updates itself every time you make a change to a document on your computer, you cancerous growth on the testicle of society!

How not to make cannabutter

So, my patient finally ran out of her special biscuits while I was on vacation. She needs more. Only... Well, my usual sources are out of town.

Sources? What's up with that? If it's medicinal, then the doctor should be prescribing it, no?

See, I didn't quite tell you the whole story last time, eh? I didn't want you to get all judgey on me. Then I remembered that I don't care.

It is medicinal. It's just not prescribed by a doctor, mainly because vets aren't allowed to prescribe medicinal marijuana.

Ya. Valentine. My funny Valentine. The vet told me that if everything went really well, and she responded as well as could be hoped to all her medications, then she might have three months to live. That was seven months ago.

And she's fine — if by 'fine' you understand me to mean 'better than I have any right to expect'. She's happy. She's strong. She's ridiculous. And she's not just alive, she's full of life. But she gets restless, especially at night. She needs to eat obscene amounts of food. And she's got to be in some pain.

The weed biscuits help out with all three of those things. So I make them for her, and I give them to her. She loves them. She's a complete pothead, that girl is. I'm okay with that.

But anyways... My usual sources are out of town. Last time I bought pre-made butter. See, you can't just toss weed into cookie dough. You have to disolve it in fat first. Otherwise, all you get is weed-flavoured cookies, but none of the 'good stuff'.

A few days ago, I managed to score a bit, but not in butter form. No problem, I figured. Surely I can find instructions on the internet.

I did. It looked pretty easy too. I got everything all set up, stirred it a bit, and then left it to simmer. I sat down to watch a movie.

A while later Anne sniffed the air. Do you smell burning? DutchBoy came running down the stairs asking the same question.

Uh oh!

[glossing gracefully over the two-metre high flames]

So my stash is gone. Valentine still has no cookies. My sources are still out of town. My house stinks. And there are some really cool black stains shooting up the kitchen wall, over the cupboard doors, and spreading out across the ceiling. And my dish brush melted.

[sigh] This was supposed to be a funny story.

The children are indignant

Child 1: But that's not fair!
Child 2: Well, but astrophysicists have—
Child 1: Still!
Child 2: The planets rotate one way, but it—
Child 1: It's been out there, doing its thing, minding its business, thinking it's a planet and then WHAMMO! Sorry, Pluto, bit a bad news for you... I wouldn't be surprised if it launched an attack on earth.

How the Children are amusing themselves today

They're coming up with a list of Canadians We Hate, Who Are Currently Still Alive. So far, pretty much everybody has made the list. Not Brian Mulroney, though. They looooooove Brian Mulroney. No, seriously, they said that. His son probably made the list, though, as well he should.

Overpaid PDF-er

Dear Boss,

I don't get it. How do you do that? How do you keep giving me more and more work, and increasingly complex work, while making me feel like you think I am the most brainless idiot. You act as if you think I am capable of nothing more than making PDFs, and yet you keep giving me more to do.

I know, I know... When you give Bridget a difficult task, she flirts with the boys and shows off her magnificent tits and gets one of them to do the work for her. Is that what you think I do? I couldn't even if I wanted to. Still, you seem to be under the impression that I'm not the one doing the jobs you give me. You definitely give me the impression that you don't think I could do them. And yet you keep giving them to me.

I don't get it.

Forget it. I'm going home.

Exasperatedly,
The Sarcastrix

Personality like a brick wall

The Ferengi: Why is this happening? [makes me get up out of my chair to go look at her monitor]
The Sarcastrix: I don't know. What'd you do?
F: When I do this, this is what happens. [demonstrates her latest asinine technique for doing something completely unnecessary]
S: Why the hell are you doing that? [turns around and makes faces]

_____________________________

New Chick: Oh look! We match.
S: Yes, we are both wearing clothes.

_____________________________

Update:
It's over now. They'll probably never even find the body.

History lesson

The first bank machine in Canada opened in 1977. With the founding of Interac in 1984, Canadians began using their bank cards at machines throughout the country. Debit cards issued by various companies first appeared in the mid to late 1980s. With the nation-wide introduction of Interac direct payment in 1994, Canadians quickly stopped using cash and cheques for large purchases. Since 2001, the number of debit transactions has outpaced the number completed using cash.

In 1992, CIBC was the first Canadian financial institution to offer an automated telephone banking service nationwide (source: http://cibc.com/ca/inside-cibc/history/story-cibc-4.html). In 1995, RBC became the first to offer its customers online banking services (source: http://www.rbc.com/history/anytimeanywhere/internet_banking.html).

Canada has the highest number of ABMs per capita in the world and benefits from the highest penetration levels of electronic channels such as debit cards, Internet banking and telephone banking (source: http://www.fin.gc.ca/toce/2002/bank_e.html).

The Ferengi has never used a bank machine. She has never paid for anything by Interac. She does not have a bank card. She goes to the bank twice a month. She writes cheques to pay her bills, which she pays on these semi-monthly trips. She then withdraws a sum of cash large enough to last her until her next visit.

When she goes abroad, she buys travellers cheques denominated in US dollars, believing the lie that American currency is more readily accepted than Canadian. Upon arrival in her destination country, she finds a local bank. She presents them with her travellers cheques and converts them into local currency.

But... But... But, but, but... I said. Then I gave up.

News flash

Transcript of a conversation between New Chick and a female co-worker...

I'm so bored today.
Ya, I'm planning a trip to Greece.
Oh, no. You don't want to go to Greece. There are dead people there. 

Better late than never

Well, well, well... It's about frickin' time.

Sucker

Have I told you about the Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove? I think I have. Ah, yes... There it is.

Bloodsucking Fiends is another creative masterpiece by Christopher Moore. I was reading it on the way to work this morning. I nearly threw up when I got to the morgue scene. I don't remember the last time I felt such a disturbed mixture of revulsion and hysteria (of the laughing kind).

So, ya, go read it. If you've got the stomach for that sort of thing...

Hmm...

The company I work for recently signed some sort of co-operative agreement with a company in London. We do some favours for them... They do some favours for us... That sort of thing.

I had a look at their publications. Interestingly, they're crap. They seem to be in dire need of an Editor and possibly a Designer.

Hmm...

Overheard

Oh, those Children...

Does anybody even eat brown toast anymore?

Only those people who don't want their insides to rot and fall out...

It's like a Shakespearean comedy*

From: Bridget Jones
Sent: Thursday, 17 August 2006
To: ALL [yes, that's a distribution list for sending to the whole company]
Subject: FW: for Pregnant Chick... shhh surprise

Begin forwarded message:

______________________________

Since a lot of people have expressed an interest in Pregnant Chick and contributing to a baby gift, I have decided to arrange for a small baby shower/maternity leave farewell at ___. I have arranged for my boss to be a decoy and get her down to the bar on Tuesday.

Please forward the invite to all employees in your department. Please be careful not to send using any distribution lists since PC's boss is on many committees and she will see the invite. I am trying to keep this a surprise.

Thanks in advance,
[Bridget's counterpart in another department]

Ya, anyways... New Chick promptly had a little fit. She didn't use my poem or anything! Seriously, New Chick wrote a poem for the baby shower invite. For somebody she barely knows. And yes, in case you were wondering, her writing really is as trite and histrionic as you'd expect it to be.

In response, New Chick sent everybody (not using a distibution list) the invite she'd done up. The one with the stupid poem and the banal picture of a generic baby...

There are just so many things wrong with this story. Can you repeat this story in a way that's not sarcastic? I certainly can't. For starters, they've managed to make Pregnant Chick sound like some sort of chattel on an auction block? Bridget may as well have the word IDIOT tattooed on her forehead. New Chick's theatrics are so overblown I don't even know where to start. I'm not even going to touch the grammar in the original e-mail.

*Except nobody's dressed up in anybody else's clothes.

Shut up, Russ

I went on vacation. Oh, yes, I really did. I have photographic evidence and everything.

See, here I am in Germany, on a train.

And here I am before the great Wank.

And speaking of Wank...

Guess what I found at the top.

Oh, and...

And this too I suppose...

In Germany, there are dogs everywhere. In Amsterdam, there are statues of dogs.

Ya, statues of dogs...

Really... Why?

And, yep, the requisite tourist picture of an Amsterdam canal.

Gotta love them public pissers, eh? No, seriously, have a good look at them little mini-statues. Hint: they're not dogs.

And here I am in the outer boondocks of Amsterdam with Rose and her brother's flatmate's sister. Don't we look HOT? Of course we do; we are hot.

Here's Anne in London.

Dudes, there's a freaking face in Stonehenge. I went there to look at the stones, and instead they were looking at me. Trippy.

This is my pint of Sleeman. In London, baby!

Anne and my old roommate at some random little pub near Goodge Street station. Goodge is a funny word, dontcha think?

Anne made me take a picture of a penis pot.

So there you have it. Photographic evidence. I'd show you more, but I need to go to bed, and you don't care. Except for you, I know you care. Loser.

I don't know her

So I ain't going to her stupid baby shower.

And, no, I will not contribute to a gift.

Office theatrics

New Chick is walking around with a couple of absurdly long-stemmed roses. She's making a big fuss. Cutting off bits of stem. Finding a vase. Getting water. Arranging them on her desk. Pausing to sigh dramatically.

I'm not going to ask her about them, just to piss her off.

When she freaks out at me for not saying anything, I'll tell her I didn't notice.

Also, she smells weird.

I couldn't resist

Too bad, I ain't telling

Hmm... Well, I called my landlady last night. I wanted to set up a time to get together with her to talk about pricing and all that. Of course, as per usual, when she doesn't want to talk, she conveniently forgets how to speak English.

She said something about her son. Or her chin. Or perhaps it was her son, whose name was Chin. And something about somebody who couldn't speak enough Chinese. I guess that would be me, since I speak none.

Then she said: You no worry. I want to sell house. You no worry. I have to tell you before I sell. Bye bye. Then she hung up.

The thing is, it's okay, because I have a plan. Now, my plan has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the house. It just means that if it doesn't work out, I won't really care. Because, of course, I'll be dead. No, not dead. And not in Winnipeg either, although somebody once told me they were the same thing. And by 'told me' I mean she stood outside my window at six in the morning and shouted at somebody who may or may not existed that Frenchie was gone. Gone, I tell you. Gone! He was dead. Or he was in Winnipeg, nobody was really sure. Besides, it was the same thing, really. Then she shouted some more.

Ya, anyways, my point is: I have a plan.

She wasn't kidding

[Sigh]

[Shudder]

[Longer shudder]

Not only was she not kidding, but the whole thing was Mrs Troi's idea. They'll be taking the classes together.

PS: New Chick looks almost exactly like Vicky Pollard, only with brown hair.

Back home at last

Many e-mails and posts to catch up on. For now I leave you with the following snippets.

Anne: Only passports and wallets? But what about people with babies?
Sars: Don't worry. I'm sure they'll have bins where people can deposit them. They'll just dispose of them afterwards.

While we were lost up in Arsenal territory, we saw a woman about 18 or 20 years old. She had too much make-up and dyed blond hair. And a mullet. I couldn't even find anything approximating it on the internet, so I had to Photoshop one for you. It was kind of like this.

Only pointier.

She had her baby with her. He was sporting a fauxhawk.

My last day in London didn't start off too well.

Anne: [whispering] Sars?
Sars: [shouting after being startled awake] WHAT?
Anne: I left you a—
Sars: [groggily] Advil.
Anne: What?
Sars: Advil! Get me some Advil.

I blame Ford for the state I was in as I stumbled around London on my last day there.

London

We met a couple of sensible, intelligent American males. How unexpected. We had a whole conversation about war, history, politics, economics, and all that crap. And they managed to not offend me.

Yesterday we went to Stonehenge. I overheard an American woman say: When they're really hot here, they don't say they're roasting. They say they're boiling. Every time I hear somebody say that, I picture them in a pot of boiling water.

How bizarre.

So, do you boil or roast? Personally, I boil. Always have. Although, frankly, I prefer it that way.

Amsterdam

You don't weigh very much, but you make me wiggle around more than normal.

Um... Ya, thanks. Rose drove me home from the pub last night. That is, she rode the bike, and I rode on the back. And the above line is what she had to say about the experience. What I had to say was AAAAAAAAAAH!

I'm sitting at an internet cafe next to the neighbour from Something About Mary. Ick.

Amsterdam is, in my opinion, overrated. It's kinda like Niagara Falls. It would be great if not for all the other tourists. A'dam is full of Americans stumbling around and moaning, Whoah, dude. We can like smoke pot here and stuff! I'm like so totally baked.

Ugh.

And all the men who work in the women's bathrooms are sleazy and gross, which (I guess) makes a certain kind of sense.

The horror

New Chick just sent me an e-mail about what's been going on while I've been away. The Children haven't said the F word all day. IAMNOTSRESSED! called her several times in a panic. One of the executives had a baby (well, his wife did the actual having part). One of the secretaries is about to have a baby. Blah blah frickin' blah. Oh, and she's signed up to take a class in September.

A dance class.

A pole-dancing class.

[shudder]

You may as well give up then

I went to the Wäscherei to catch up on some laundry. The place had self-serve facilities open until eleven, and full-serve open until eight. At halb neun (half past eight), while I was putting my stuff in, a man came running in. He asked me where the full-serve staff person was. My pants! She has my pants.

I told him she'd gone. This seemed to represent the end of the world as he knew it. I suggested he come back in the morning.

But I have no wife! Who will iron my pants?

Lost in the past

Took a detour along the way from Munich to Amsterdam. I'm in Lindau, where once upon a time I spent a summer.

It's pouring rain. Will leave soon to head back to Frankfurt, where I'll stay another night. I leave for Amsterdam in the morning.