The Buick that Broke the Camels Back…

Hey all, Faustus here.  I know, I know, I know what your thinking… okay I don’t, and I don’t really want to know.  But hey, Ive got a post for ya, a personal one, a “rant” if you will.

So, its not even 9am and I am really all done with today.  Absolutely, to the point, without a doubt, without question, indisputably, done.  Today is one of those days that things are annoying me left and right and if it keeps up, I will become violent with rage at something stupid… like a chipmunk for looking at me.

Each tiny little event of annoyance is like stacking straws made of annoyance on the back of a camel… fuck that no… its like stacking fucking Buicks driven by orangutans giving me the double bird, stacked on the back of a god damned camel.

But on a fucking Buick!
but on a fuckin Buick

To begin, due to some previous events that I am simply not sharing on here, I did not sleep well, which is pretty craptacular since I am a very light sleeper anyway.  And when I say light sleeper, I mean I apparently have super human hearing in my sleep to the degree that I could hear my cat fart.  In Wisconsin.
Sadly, I’m only partially kidding there.  About 4am, I hear my cat saunter off to his litter box.
“Scratch scratch scratch…. Scratch scratch scratch…  Poooooooooooooooooooooooooop!”

…notice something missing there?  Exactly.  No flush.  No match.  Nothing.  My cat likes to be a dick sometimes… ok most of the time and not bury his shit.  Why?  Because he’s the Alpha?  no.  Because he’s trying to show some form of dominance?  Hardly.  Its just cuz he’s a dick.  Thankfully… the fan in the hallway kept the stench that could give a week old corpse a run for his money on the ripeness scale at bay.
After creating his own form of chemical warfare, he feels the need to let everyone know that his bowels are empty and he is officially 6lbs lighter by running as fast as his fat litle ass can carry him through every room of the apartment.  And bearing all the grace of a bull having a stroke, he just sort of runs into everything on his way.

I wish I was kidding... but that really is my cat.
I wish I was kidding… but that really is my cat.

Finally… back to sleep.


“Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch….. poooooop poooop  poop poop….. Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch…. Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch…”

“KNOCK IT OFF!!!!!”   <—- that would be me.  In case you were lost.

That would be the other cat… slightly thinner (not by much anymore) and mildly more retarded than the other one.  And by mildly… we are talking the difference between… um… well lets just say he walks face first into solid objects.  And he looks stoned all the time.

Clinging to the gene pool

Anyway…. That sound of endless pawing at the sand isn’t the sand at all.  Its because he doesn’t like having sand in his paws… so he wipes them on the side of the litter box.  Cute huh?
Except when he is done wiping one paw he puts it down BACK IN THE FUCKING SAND to wipe the other one.  Do you see where this vicious cycle of genius is going?  Its like the old cards that had “How do you keep an idiot busy?  Turn the card over and find out” printed on both sides… except this card is blank on both sides.

Back to sleep again…

*insert retarded ringtone of my alarm going off*  (Please note, my cell phone is my alarm clock)

I hit snooze.  The screen goes black but its still on.  Of course it is.  Its my phone.  The whole thing locks up in a full on form of ultimate mockery.  My extra 10 to 15 minutes of sleep is spent contemplating smashing my phone with one of my favorite felines while instead I simply reset it, because finding a cat would involve me getting my tired ass out of bed.  This only takes about 8 minutes to do… because you know… its a SMART Phone… and so is my cat.  Meanwhile, I’m trying NOT to fall asleep because I wont have an alarm to wake me.

At last I get up, put on my new(ish) black jeans to find that one of the belt loops is ripped off… Neat!  Apparently my pants have joined some kind of Fight Club that they attend in the middle of the night without me.  Explains a lot about my underwear I suppose.

Thats my underwear on the right.

I then grab my iPod which I had just updated last night with all kinds of new music that I did not steal from the interwebs (no really… not this time.  Half of it was stolen by someone else and the other was a pair of CDs I ripped from a friend).  All excited with new songs, albums, playlists and so on to listen on my ride to work and while at my desk…  I get in my truck and plug that bad boy in.

Playlists:  0 Playlists
Albums:  0 Albums
Songs:  0 Songs
Photos:  0 Photos
Movies:  0 Movies

Memory:  520mb Free of 80GB

WTF??!!  I’m already on the road at this point so radio it is.  Hmmmm…  92.9… I hit their half our commercial block so they don’t need to play commercials for the rest of the day.  97.5… talking about Lost season finale… 101.1… Lost season finale… 104.1….  Lost season finale?  107.3… Sports… I hate sports.
Fuck it.  I’ll hum to myself.  … I stopped when I started humming the season finale to Lost.

Lost is a lot like poopin...

So I get on the highway and hit traffic.  Let me give you a visual.  I want you to draw a line.  I want to mark A at one end, C at the other and B about 3/4 of the way to C.  I live at B.  I work at C.  Traffic usually gets bad about halfway.  But traffic was backed up to A today… which is Wisconsin.


Why?  Why so bad today?  Was there a blood streak across the road?  Did a train full of peanut butter collide with a jet full of chocolate and it was raining peanut butter cups?  Had they closed down the highway to film Transformers 3 and there were giant robots fighting it out on my way to work?!

No… A motorcycle had broken down and it was going on a flat bed.  Oh, there was a cop there too.  An hour… my half hour ride took me an hour.
Pet peeves while driving:
I will not say do not text and drive because I’d be a hypocrite.  But if you cant do it, than don’t.  Yes, I’m talking to you mister take up a quarter lane extra.
Do not read your newspaper and drive
Do not do the fucking crossword and drive
Do not shave with an extra mirror that isn’t even facing the road… and drive.
Unless your iPad is somehow connected to your vehicle and you are steering with it… GET IT OFF THE FUCKING STEERING WHEEL
And take off your fucking hood before I slap it off of you.

Stop crying or I'll give you a reason to cry...

So I’m at work.  I need breakfast or something similar to the idea of such.  I decide on a nice warm blueberry muffin, a few slices of bacon and a bottle of milk.
Muffin, check.  Bacon, Check.  Milk… no milk.  Crap.  So I ask… and all they have are those little milks for kids.  Why are these even here??  There are no children here.  Give me a man’s milk dammit.  I’m nearly 6’5… I can easily drink a quart in a sitting.
So I buy 2.
I get to my desk to eat my tasty breakfast and find my muffin is cold.  Sure… I could nuke it… but its quite a walk to get back to a microwave, so shy of sitting on it for a bit, I just deal with it.  Onto the bacon.  I love bacon.  Bacon is my enemy and my lover.  However, I do not love bacon when it is served in a small wading pool of grease.  I looked my little Styrofoam pet carrier of bacon love and thought they looked nice and crispy… until I touched them and found they were soggy from sitting in about a shot glass worth of grease and fat.  Why?  Why does this sound like a good idea.  They are dripping.  If it gets on my clothes, I know from experience that never comes out.  If it gets on my desk… it never really comes clean.
…Its on my desk.


Anyway… I have 2 little milks here, which is almost 1 normal one.  So I start eating and upon opening an almost milk, I find it has a retarded cap.  You all know what I mean.  The cap you pull off and there is a small amount of milk at the top of it, clinging to it like a fucking ninja.  Its waiting.  It will not fall.  Shake it, throw it, blow at it…. It will not move.  Until it hovers over your clothes.
“ATTACK!!” it screams in a milky ninja dialect.

So my eyes and stomach know I have 2 milks to drink… plenty of moo juice to wash down my cold muffin and greasy bacon… however, my brain is registering it by the bottle in my hand.  There is only one.  There is no more milk.  Drink it slow.  There is no second bottle.  I try to argue and my eyes back me up but my brain convinces my stomach… and now I have half a bottle of milk left that I don’t want.

I think that’s enough of a rant for now.
I’ll let you know when I snap.


~ by steamcrypt on May 25, 2010.

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