Working

I realize it has been a few days since I last posted. I've been busy eating fatty foods and napping. The kind of luxurious napping, where you are up for less than 3 hours, and you find yourself already falling asleep on the couch, and you rouse yourself enough to go to the bedroom so you can be all the more comfortable, your stomach full of coke and nutty bars. It takes a lot of work for me to spend more time awake than asleep. The Boy and Wikus both think I'm crazy in that they feel compelled to stay awake, to accomplish something, anything, gosh darn it, even if the sun is down, and it is the middle of the night, and that accomplishment is 2 more hours of Grand Theft Auto. I admire their strength and dedication, but I still think sliding in to my 600-thread-count sheets and snuggling with a fat cat, is way more productive than being awake. It just feels so damn good. This morning when the alarm was about to start jangling my nerves, I woke up, and for a second, seriously contemplated quitting my job so I could just stay in bed only getting up to use the bathroom, and then back to bed. Though, that would be sad since my elderly cat isn't allowed in the bedroom due to his tendency to pee on my head while I'm sleeping.

The highlight over the past few days was when The Boy, Wikus and I were watching Torchwood, and one of the most horrible, fetid, intestinal smells came floating across the room. The kind of smell where you look around to see if some whale is beached in the living room that was somehow overlooked for the past 3 months, even with all the gulls swooping down, scavenging its putrid body. We quickly understood what was going on when one of the cats started scooting his butt across the floor--over by the front door, by the couch, by the kitchen, in front of the bedroom. Leaving lovely little brown smears of poo and stink. Torchwood was paused and the three of us went in to action with me as the leader. I belted out orders: Boy get towels, Wikus catch the soiled cat. We corral him in to the bathroom. He knows what's coming and is cowering in a corner already mewling. I have a very small bathroom, and with the three of us in there, our army seemed to large for the task, but we knew that once that cat hit water, all three of us were absolutely necessary. I regulated the water temperature, while advising Wikus of the risks he is about to take--mainly some serious scratches if things do not go as planned. That he is to hold the cat in the water, nape of the neck preferably but if that can't happen, just stay clear of the legs and keep holding him down around the middle of his back. The Boy was behind us as back up in case the cat got loose and attached himself to Wikus' face. I assigned myself the worst of duties, scooping diarrhea out of the cat's ass like it was some kind of warm fudgy dessert. Did I mention this cat is a long-haired cat? Poor fellow was weeping. Screaming in agony even though the water was only hitting his ass. Though, he did lose a lot of ass hairs as I tried to gently tug the poo from his rear. Then I shampooed his ass with Pantene for curly hair, which I felt was a fine choice for his hair type and would leaving him smelling nice. I used a bit too much shampoo (out of habit pouring enough for my head instead of his ass), and had trouble rinsing. Had The Boy get a cup to assist in the rinsing process. Once I felt he was good to go, I instructed The Boy to hover a towel near, and Wikus did his best at lowering the cat in to the towel. This ended in a torn towel and scratched forearms. We did our best to dry the cat off and tend to Wikus' war wounds. The cat was immediately placated with some food, and was left free to lick his ass and legs for the rest of the evening. We commenced watching Torchwood with our bodies full of adrenaline and the satisfaction of a job almost well done.

I'd post a picture of the wet cat, but the work's internet connection can't handle the bandwidth necessary to post something so huge in bits.

(Picture posted later at home where my internet can actually handle such a request; though, I don't want to make it sound like my home internet is that great, it isn't, it sucks.)

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In other news, I am working really hard on "assertively" communicating with Twit. Currently we are exchanging emails regarding the label maker. When I started here, I was given the label maker and told to keep it safe. Meaning, don't let people abuse it, keep the precious hidden. Then Twit started, and one would think her world revolved around the label maker. That she was too good to make file labels. NO! It had to be an expensive plastic label from the label maker. She used it on 100s of files she made for the dumbfuck ex-cop (who started soon after her and the first words out of his mouth was to ask which one of us was his secretary. I will save my vitriol regarding him to another post). The label maker was located on top of my hard drive, exactly at the level of my left knee. She would just walk up behind me, bend down and take it. Didn't bother to ask if it was ok to violate my personal space. Then she'd leave it on her desk and not bring it back. Such rude office etiquette. After a few times of this behavior, I actually moved the hard drive so it sat in front of my knees, making it so she'd be forced to either ask for it or get between my legs to retrieve it. Both intriguing thoughts. So she took to taking it while I was away from my desk. The DONKEY WHORE!

It is several months later, and I actually needed the damn thing and could not find it--at my desk nor hers. I sent an email out asking where the label maker had wandered off to, and she wrote a very snippy email back advising how she had put it in a "general area" since "several of us use it." Obviously trying to goad me in to an apoplectic fit, I decided to handle some other work items before responding. Otherwise I would have called her a thrice-used douchebag and mentioned how her face and flat ass are in a "who's uglier" competition, and that wearing her pants so tight that the crotch seam splits her ass and twat in half does not, in fact, give the appearance of a rounder ass, and forces most of us in the office to vomit in our mouths every time we catch sight of her.

Once I was able to breathe without fire in my mouth, I thanked her for letting me know where the label maker is and in the future it would be nice if she tells me of decisions she makes that affect me, especially when it is regarding something I was in charge of, and that it is nice to keep everyone in the loop and not make isolated decisions in a group setting. That's right, used her words right back at her. That's why you should never write emails to me; I will just take what you said, and turn it right back around and cut your intestines out with it.

It's also past Labor Day, so stop wearing your white pumps. Kathleen Turner would so brain you with a telephone right now.