Thursday, September 25, 2003

... and now for a rant i like to call:

reason number 7,652 why work is hard
a spoiled persons complaint

my work is giant. i work in one of literally hundreds of buildings. mine, like most of them, is 3 stories tall. i work on the 3rd floor. each floor has a kitchen. each kitchen has those big refrigerator things, like they have in convenience stores, stocked to the brim with soda. (NOT POP!) this means i can drink as much free coke, sprite, 7up, pepsi, diet pepsi, diet caffeine free pepsi (whats the point?), slice, rootbeer, gingerale, talking rain, mountain dew and all those gross canned juices i want. this makes my love/hate relationship with coca-cola classic amazingly difficult. you see, i can drink as much of it as i want. also, the real refrigerator in the kitchen makes ice again. this means i can once again enjoy coke, in a glass, with ice. damn. i work at a desk. if i sit around all bourgeois, drinking coke all day, it'll make me a fatso. if i dont ... uh, it sucks.

the bathrooms at this job also stink. A lot. Not like gross bathroom stuff, more like the general grossness of hundreds of men passing through and opening their pants every day. plus, it's full of grunters. i'll just assume you know, or can figure out, what that means. one day i'm just going to bring in a transistor radio, a bunch of air fresheners and a rusty fan. this will serve several purposes; 1) the rustyness of the fan and the transistor radio will drown out the grunters and urinal farters ... yeah, farting at the urinal is disgusting. especially when it sounds like you need to wipe afterwards. 2) the air fresheners and the fan will sirculate stale air and make it smell fresh and pleasant. productivity is bound to skyrocket. i'm bound to get a raise ... then i'll quit and go to work somewhere where they'll provide me my own private bathroom ... like my house.

the beatles were a great band

its already noon. i should go eat lunch. lunch is the meal of champions ... too bad i ate the sandwich i was going to eat for lunch in the car on the way here. oh well ... i'll just go drink a coke and listen to cave in.

nate you have my cave in record ... and my red cowboy shirt ... and a bunch of my seven inches. you bastard.

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose
'Cause weird lover Wilde is on mine