In need of a title
I’m good at my job. I’m lazy, but I’m really fucking good. I have to be good, because customers are the stupidest people in the world. You wanna know who moved your cheese? A customer. You plan and plan and plan, and you get everything right, but the guy paying the bill is a monkey-wrench. The correct support people could be available during the change window, but of course not. They get to sleep in the middle of the night. They want to work on it at 7:30 on a Sunday morning.
And it was the Sunday morning that I was gonna return to the Church. Become a lapsed lapsed Catholic. Only Kellie Osbourne singing a Madonna song could drive me to that kind of despair. Papa don’t preach? Ozzy can barely even mumble.
Bless me, blogreaders, for I have sinned. Wow, I don’t even need Confession. I can just tell all ya’ll about my trespasses. Better that than sitting in the dark with some pseudo-celibate drunk who puncuates all his directives with “my son.”
So, my sins today. I had lustful thoughts. But really, how could I not, what with the all the talk of blowjobs and rack shots over at Dawn’s. I walked up to the counter of the record store and paid twelve bucks for the Pete Yorn album, but they messed up, and I walked out with the bonus disc. I didn’t notice until I was home (and I’m not even sure I want to hear the Boss sing Yorn), so that probably doesn’t count. I’ve already discussed my hatred for the strangers that pay my exboritant paycheck. Hey, I barely sinned at all today!
Some of my friends consider buying Pete Yorn to be a sin in and of itself, but when an Olsen tells me to buy a CD, I buy it. I also bought the new Enon thing, Rick, so don’t hit me.
Popularity: 1% [?]
By any chance were you drinking Bombay Sapphire when you wrote this?
Waste Bombay Sapphire on a post of this low quality? No way. This was all beer. Glorious micro-brewed (yet with a twist-off cap) beer.
Hey when an Olsen says bite me - are you gonna do it?
Mhmmmm: Pete Yorn. Look out you don’t subscribe to his (e)mailing list, though: that motherfucker sends out more e-mail than a Russian lolita studying penis enlargement at the University of Phoenix.