Tough week
This is going to sound lame, but I've actually written two posts recently, but they were about work and, given my recent issues with people at work reading this blog, I'm through with posting negative stuff about work.
Which sucks, because the quality of my posts seems to be inversely related to the crappiness of any given day at work.
Anyhow, two things. First off, a hilarious Onion headline:
"Like Boxes of Shit In Your House? Get a Cat."
I have an Onion calendar sitting on my desk, and it's an enormous object of pride and comic material. It is also motivation; my goal is to become at least 75% as sarcastic as the people who write for the Onion.
Now for number two. SockMama and I are driving to work. We are not two miles away from our house when a scenario unfolds. There's a cute little squirel in the opposite lane as we are; I slow down instinctively, as I always expect (and they usually do) for them to make a dash in front of the car once they see it. So we're cool...we're going to save a little squirel life, and conitinue on to work with Karma on our side. But then a monstrous F-150 roars into view, with a vehement redeck and a gun rack behind the wheel. The inbread bastard see little Mr. Cute Squirrel, guns the gas.
By this time, the squirel is just noticing us, approaching his position in the street. He wants to bold, you can tell, but now he's hearing a roaring steel welded V-8 behind him, and he's not sure what to do: if he runs in front of us, he'll get run over (he thinks, but little does he know I have cat-like reflexes, as well as an immense paranoia for crashing into anything, living or fabricated). On the other hand, he can't just sit there, because he knows that sound behind him exactly one of soothing comfort.
But before he has time to make any decision, the blood thirsty (and obviously very ill) inbred is on top of him. The squirel turns to see a tire -- which is not aligned directly with his head as a matter of consequence -- bearing down on him. But the little squirel jukes to the left like a little furry Barry Sanders, missing the knobby rubber giant by an inch. But he's too nervous now; the exhilaration and adrenaline are coursing through his minature veins, and instead of simply standing still and letting the truck pass over him, he makes a faulty move to the right, where he is met with a rear tire.
As the redneck sped forth to his upcoming tractor pull or backwoods lynching, the tire proceeded its course over the poor squirel, which, after a brief stint in the air (thanks to those wonderfully oversized tires), the squirel came back down the asphalt, limp and lifeless, and wondering what it was he did to deserve this.
And how his poor little squirel kids will make it without him( they'll probably be eaten by a crow or raccoon now.)
Thanks a lot, Mr. Redneck.
What an asshole.
Which sucks, because the quality of my posts seems to be inversely related to the crappiness of any given day at work.
Anyhow, two things. First off, a hilarious Onion headline:
"Like Boxes of Shit In Your House? Get a Cat."
I have an Onion calendar sitting on my desk, and it's an enormous object of pride and comic material. It is also motivation; my goal is to become at least 75% as sarcastic as the people who write for the Onion.
Now for number two. SockMama and I are driving to work. We are not two miles away from our house when a scenario unfolds. There's a cute little squirel in the opposite lane as we are; I slow down instinctively, as I always expect (and they usually do) for them to make a dash in front of the car once they see it. So we're cool...we're going to save a little squirel life, and conitinue on to work with Karma on our side. But then a monstrous F-150 roars into view, with a vehement redeck and a gun rack behind the wheel. The inbread bastard see little Mr. Cute Squirrel, guns the gas.
By this time, the squirel is just noticing us, approaching his position in the street. He wants to bold, you can tell, but now he's hearing a roaring steel welded V-8 behind him, and he's not sure what to do: if he runs in front of us, he'll get run over (he thinks, but little does he know I have cat-like reflexes, as well as an immense paranoia for crashing into anything, living or fabricated). On the other hand, he can't just sit there, because he knows that sound behind him exactly one of soothing comfort.
But before he has time to make any decision, the blood thirsty (and obviously very ill) inbred is on top of him. The squirel turns to see a tire -- which is not aligned directly with his head as a matter of consequence -- bearing down on him. But the little squirel jukes to the left like a little furry Barry Sanders, missing the knobby rubber giant by an inch. But he's too nervous now; the exhilaration and adrenaline are coursing through his minature veins, and instead of simply standing still and letting the truck pass over him, he makes a faulty move to the right, where he is met with a rear tire.
As the redneck sped forth to his upcoming tractor pull or backwoods lynching, the tire proceeded its course over the poor squirel, which, after a brief stint in the air (thanks to those wonderfully oversized tires), the squirel came back down the asphalt, limp and lifeless, and wondering what it was he did to deserve this.
And how his poor little squirel kids will make it without him( they'll probably be eaten by a crow or raccoon now.)
Thanks a lot, Mr. Redneck.
What an asshole.
posted by The Haiku Review at 8:06 AM
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