Fuck budgets.wirelowNovember 30 2005, 04:34:31 UTC
My boss is a total queer so I have to go out and buy shit for which I will later be reimbursed. My heart cries. No budget I can scrape from the top of.
There is nothing wrong with being a stoic white man. This little brown queer is trying to make me smile. He chisels away and undermines my being with his "good moring!"s, and his smiley yet tender "how are you?"'s.
Worry not of the crapped out Weiner Fest. Only fear for the Very Queer Christmas Brought To You By A Spoiled Fruit From India.
Decorating...for...this...company...Christmas...Party...The thought...leaves me...weak. I am debilitated by the horrors...candy canes...bows...elves that are not sex slaves...non-S&M Nutcrackers...ginger bread men that are smiling martyrs for your seasonal cheer, which medicate your bad economy buyer's remorse.
I would rape the elves. I would rip the Nutcracker's head off and make him bite his own nuts for a change. I WOULD DUNK THE GINGER BREAD MEN IN EGG NOGG DROWNING AND DEVOURING THEM ONE LIMB AT A TIME. Which is more hardcore than it sounds, seeing as that the mixture of egg and milk doesn't agree with my stomach, and whatever I eat with it turns into the the most putrid shit I've ever made. Well except for the Mickey's 40oz. shit.
I gag in delight.
My saddest moment looms over head ever brighter than my eminent demise. This time in which I decorate for Christmas besides the single 70's strand of Christmas lights above the porch of Bastion of Whitetrashdom, leaves me feeling helpless, dispossessed, violated. The way my boss wants it.
There is nothing wrong with being a stoic white man. This little brown queer is trying to make me smile. He chisels away and undermines my being with his "good moring!"s, and his smiley yet tender "how are you?"'s.
Worry not of the crapped out Weiner Fest. Only fear for the Very Queer Christmas Brought To You By A Spoiled Fruit From India.
Decorating...for...this...company...Christmas...Party...The thought...leaves me...weak. I am debilitated by the horrors...candy canes...bows...elves that are not sex slaves...non-S&M Nutcrackers...ginger bread men that are smiling martyrs for your seasonal cheer, which medicate your bad economy buyer's remorse.
I would rape the elves. I would rip the Nutcracker's head off and make him bite his own nuts for a change. I WOULD DUNK THE GINGER BREAD MEN IN EGG NOGG DROWNING AND DEVOURING THEM ONE LIMB AT A TIME. Which is more hardcore than it sounds, seeing as that the mixture of egg and milk doesn't agree with my stomach, and whatever I eat with it turns into the the most putrid shit I've ever made. Well except for the Mickey's 40oz. shit.
I gag in delight.
My saddest moment looms over head ever brighter than my eminent demise. This time in which I decorate for Christmas besides the single 70's strand of Christmas lights above the porch of Bastion of Whitetrashdom, leaves me feeling helpless, dispossessed, violated. The way my boss wants it.
And boy does he want it.
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