Another day at work, and I am busily assembling work kits. A co-worker comes up from behind me. "That's not what I think it is, is it?"
I look down at the long metal rod in my hands. "Well, it's most definitely NOT a dildo, lemme tell you," I say, putting my best shit-eating grin on my face.
Co-worker becomes confused. This is when I realize that the person I thought was "co-worker" is ACTUALLY "boss". This is also the moment I realize that what I thought was a nearby "door" is actually "the last thing you'll see of this place when you get thrown out on your ass."
Instead, boss looks at metal rod, and goes "No, that's definitely the piston I thought it was. Thanks for finding it."
He then grabs the piston, and turns to look at me. "And you're right, it does look kind of like a dildo. How'd you find that out?"
The shit-eating grin returns on my face. "You don't wanna know."
Sound Effects
I am in the warehouse with a bunch of former military engineers. Naturally, the conversation turns to Die Hard, as warehouse conversations are wont to do. This quickly leads me into making an imaginary uzi, and shooting a co-worker.
"Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!" I sound, making the stuttering noise of a semi-automatic rifle that is, if I say so myself, scarily accurate.
Of course, he dodges, because he is a male, and therefore, able to dodge super-sonic bullets. I can't blame him, although really, I should have hit him, because I am a male, and therefore, unable to miss. Anyways, he draws two imaginary desert eagles (I suppose they could be glocks, but if we're gonna deal with imaginary guns, they should probably be cool imaginary guns, right?).
With his deagles, he proceeds to blast at the table I am hiding behind. "Bkchhsss! Bkchssss!" He says, scrunching his face up, Axl Rose style, while he makes the sounds. Of course, he doesn't hit, but that imaginary computer in front of me explodes in a cascade of imaginary sparks.
Another man rushes to my defence with a shotgun, letting out a loud "BOOM!" and then a cocking sound. He covers me while I run to cover, just as two more men rush into the fray on the other side. One sprays the area with AK-47 fire ("ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!") while the other seems to be working on some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher which is sure to blow a hole in that imaginary wall behind me.
I will walk away from that explosion in slow motion.
It's looking bad. That rocket launcher is being loaded up, and I can hear Marc in the next room, supplying the "pings!" and "Chinks!" as imaginary bullets tear up the warehouse. And then, my compatriot comes to the rescue.
Jill comes out from behind cover, standing in the middle of the doorway like an easy target, and has some sort of derringer pistol which seems to consist of her thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker's along with a pointy-finger... the ol' "Finger-Banger". She points this puny pistol at the rocket-man, and begins firing.
"Pew! Pew!"
Silence rains in the warehouse, the only sound being that of imaginary sparks firing off a broken screen and phantasmal flames lapping at spilled diesel on the floor. The combatants all look at each other, and then put down their arms.
"Girls don't know how to make sound effects," Rocket man says.
Another man holsters his desert eagles. "Did anyone watch that football game last night?"
"I miss my kids," the assault rifler says, strolling out of the room, shaking his head as he looks at Jill's pistol, still in her hand.
Jill looks at me, but I'm trying to avoid eye contact. "What'd I do?" She asks.
I shake my head and get back to work.
"Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!" I sound, making the stuttering noise of a semi-automatic rifle that is, if I say so myself, scarily accurate.
Of course, he dodges, because he is a male, and therefore, able to dodge super-sonic bullets. I can't blame him, although really, I should have hit him, because I am a male, and therefore, unable to miss. Anyways, he draws two imaginary desert eagles (I suppose they could be glocks, but if we're gonna deal with imaginary guns, they should probably be cool imaginary guns, right?).
With his deagles, he proceeds to blast at the table I am hiding behind. "Bkchhsss! Bkchssss!" He says, scrunching his face up, Axl Rose style, while he makes the sounds. Of course, he doesn't hit, but that imaginary computer in front of me explodes in a cascade of imaginary sparks.
Another man rushes to my defence with a shotgun, letting out a loud "BOOM!" and then a cocking sound. He covers me while I run to cover, just as two more men rush into the fray on the other side. One sprays the area with AK-47 fire ("ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!") while the other seems to be working on some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher which is sure to blow a hole in that imaginary wall behind me.
I will walk away from that explosion in slow motion.
It's looking bad. That rocket launcher is being loaded up, and I can hear Marc in the next room, supplying the "pings!" and "Chinks!" as imaginary bullets tear up the warehouse. And then, my compatriot comes to the rescue.
Jill comes out from behind cover, standing in the middle of the doorway like an easy target, and has some sort of derringer pistol which seems to consist of her thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker's along with a pointy-finger... the ol' "Finger-Banger". She points this puny pistol at the rocket-man, and begins firing.
"Pew! Pew!"
Silence rains in the warehouse, the only sound being that of imaginary sparks firing off a broken screen and phantasmal flames lapping at spilled diesel on the floor. The combatants all look at each other, and then put down their arms.
"Girls don't know how to make sound effects," Rocket man says.
Another man holsters his desert eagles. "Did anyone watch that football game last night?"
"I miss my kids," the assault rifler says, strolling out of the room, shaking his head as he looks at Jill's pistol, still in her hand.
Jill looks at me, but I'm trying to avoid eye contact. "What'd I do?" She asks.
I shake my head and get back to work.
Cool Gingers:
"Trust me, Jill. There are very few cool redheaded men," I say while in the workshop, throwing a few screws into a box.
"What about, um, what about what's her name?" Jill asks.
"I'm guessing what's her name is a woman. Redheaded women don't count."
"Oh, yeah, right." Jill is nice, but she sometimes misses the point. She also prefers the Stones to the Beatles, and therefore can't be trusted.
"Ginger boys just cannot be cool," I say, perhaps a bit sadly.
She spends the next hour thinking of a name, and then coming up to me to see if this guy is cool. It seems she's more trying to think of famous redheaded men, rather than trying to ascertain if they're cool. And it's true - there are relatively few famous ginger men.
"Ron Howard? Jill, Ron Howard is NOT cool. He's the epitome of nerd-dom."
"Jill, seriously? You think David Caruso is cool? Seriously?"
And so on, and so forth.
Eventually, after two hours, she settles on Prince Harry - and I guess he's kind of cool. However, he's the exception that proves my point.
The point?
I'm genetically predisposed to liking Doctor Who and obsessing about music. Being suave just isn't in my blood or, more importantly, my hair.
"What about, um, what about what's her name?" Jill asks.
"I'm guessing what's her name is a woman. Redheaded women don't count."
"Oh, yeah, right." Jill is nice, but she sometimes misses the point. She also prefers the Stones to the Beatles, and therefore can't be trusted.
"Ginger boys just cannot be cool," I say, perhaps a bit sadly.
She spends the next hour thinking of a name, and then coming up to me to see if this guy is cool. It seems she's more trying to think of famous redheaded men, rather than trying to ascertain if they're cool. And it's true - there are relatively few famous ginger men.
"Ron Howard? Jill, Ron Howard is NOT cool. He's the epitome of nerd-dom."
"Jill, seriously? You think David Caruso is cool? Seriously?"
And so on, and so forth.
Eventually, after two hours, she settles on Prince Harry - and I guess he's kind of cool. However, he's the exception that proves my point.
The point?
I'm genetically predisposed to liking Doctor Who and obsessing about music. Being suave just isn't in my blood or, more importantly, my hair.
An Explanation of Sorts:
A while ago, Blogger decided to change their settings, mostly because they are dicks and can't stand, I dunno, tradition or something.
My computer was old enough that were it a human being, it'd be old enough to read and refuse to eat brussel sprouts. It was having problems loading the google website, let alone handle new changes to the tried and true.
And so I was cut off from the "blogosphere", or something to that effect. This meant I had to do new things to occupy my time... like go outside. Or socialize.
They were dark times.
Luckily, I have a new computer now. And I can carry it with me, because it's all laptoppy and whatnot. As an added bonus, it has this great sperm-zapping feature that ensures there will be no future Daves walking around, for which I'm sure the universe is thankful.
Anyways, for those who are of the TL;DR variety.... I'm back.
My computer was old enough that were it a human being, it'd be old enough to read and refuse to eat brussel sprouts. It was having problems loading the google website, let alone handle new changes to the tried and true.
And so I was cut off from the "blogosphere", or something to that effect. This meant I had to do new things to occupy my time... like go outside. Or socialize.
They were dark times.
Luckily, I have a new computer now. And I can carry it with me, because it's all laptoppy and whatnot. As an added bonus, it has this great sperm-zapping feature that ensures there will be no future Daves walking around, for which I'm sure the universe is thankful.
Anyways, for those who are of the TL;DR variety.... I'm back.
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