RAWRZ! (or, "I Iz Hongree!")
I recently had A Very Bad Day at Work. Suffice to say, it involved the ridiculously unsurprising discovery that even when you work for one of the coolest corporations around, it's still a corporation at the end of the day. And corporations still do shitty things, and managers are still hired by corporations to say things that sound pretty like unicorns and rainbows, but underneath are shitty like creamed corn and gingivitis.
Nevertheless, some things in life truly do not have a fecalescent underbelly. One of them is The Chicken Machine That Clucks and Rotates and Lays Plastic Eggs with Toys in Them. Another is feety pajamas. And it just so happened that, on the same Very Bad Day, a box arrived for me and it wasn't even my birthday. No, even better. The onemintjulep had bought me my very own pair of Tiger Feety Pajamas! It's really all I can do not to wear them all the time, everywhere, even to work.
OMFG, do I love these pajamas. I have worn them when it's too hot for underpants, never mind fleece, and I have apparently changed into them after falling into a drugged sleep and eating five donuts and a cupcake and not remembering any of it. (Not that I admit the donut thing, because onemintjulep doesn't remember Donut Night either and technically, it could have been him who 'et the donuts even if it looks a little suspicious that there's a chocolate smudge on my side of the bed.)
In my world, there's just nothing much better than Chicken Machines and Feety Pajamas and cats. So next time I have an unpleasant conversation with a manager, I think I'll just pretend he's a giant spinning plastic chicken and that the Corporatisms crapping from his mouth are nothing more than huge plastic eggs with toys in them. I'm sure that's not too far from what he thinks of himself anyway.
Nevertheless, some things in life truly do not have a fecalescent underbelly. One of them is The Chicken Machine That Clucks and Rotates and Lays Plastic Eggs with Toys in Them. Another is feety pajamas. And it just so happened that, on the same Very Bad Day, a box arrived for me and it wasn't even my birthday. No, even better. The onemintjulep had bought me my very own pair of Tiger Feety Pajamas! It's really all I can do not to wear them all the time, everywhere, even to work.
OMFG, do I love these pajamas. I have worn them when it's too hot for underpants, never mind fleece, and I have apparently changed into them after falling into a drugged sleep and eating five donuts and a cupcake and not remembering any of it. (Not that I admit the donut thing, because onemintjulep doesn't remember Donut Night either and technically, it could have been him who 'et the donuts even if it looks a little suspicious that there's a chocolate smudge on my side of the bed.)
In my world, there's just nothing much better than Chicken Machines and Feety Pajamas and cats. So next time I have an unpleasant conversation with a manager, I think I'll just pretend he's a giant spinning plastic chicken and that the Corporatisms crapping from his mouth are nothing more than huge plastic eggs with toys in them. I'm sure that's not too far from what he thinks of himself anyway.