This vanilla chai tea tastes like hot pee.

Like hot alcoholic dad pee.

And I’m sorry I’m drinking it.

This is my next to last night at Job 2, and so far, the following has happened:

-A door-slamming man slammed the front door, waved his hand in my face when I tried to tell him which room his class was in, walked into the wrong room, slammed door, walked out, slammed door, walked into right room, slammed door.

-A member complained about not getting his member gift after watching me show another member her gift options, and when I said “Okay, well then which gift would you like?” he pulled his glasses to the end of his nose and stared down at me through them, then responded, “Well WHAT ARE MY OPTIONSSSS??”

-A co-worker copied the wrong page for an instructor, and I had to figure out how to make GoogleDocs recognize an image as a document and print it.  It was not easy and it was also kind of dumb.

-A woman reported a terrorist attack because someone left a cart with some boxes on it by the front door.  “And there’s NO ONE around!”  I promised to get “Maintenance” on it right away.  In my mind, Maintenance is this bald guy in a blue jumpsuit with an eye patch who just waits in this closet down the hall that says “Utility Sink” on the door until I call him on a special phone.  Which I have no intention of doing.  (Because he is not real…did you get that part?)

I gave my notice at Job 1 this morning.  My boss looked genuinely shocked for just a moment, then quickly masked her feelings with falsity, as she is apt to do, and her mouth just hung open in mock surprise for an uncomfortable amount of time.  So I said, “Sooo…” to jerk her back to reality.  She pushed hard for me to tell her exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing.  I gave her a really rehearsed answer which told her nothing at all, which pissed her off.  She told Veggie Tales the Dickless Wonder that I had just resigned, and he immediately began digging for information on where I was going.  I gave him the same story, and he continued to prod me.  “So, is it like, a lateral move, or what?”

So, do you know like, how inappropriate and unprofessional you are, or what?

I’m not trying to be a bitch, I just don’t want them to know because I know they’d immediately want to tell me exactly what they think of it.  And I don’t want to hear it anymore.

I’m at the point in the job-leaving phase when I feel like I deserve to say “No” and “I’m not going to do that.”  Fire me, you dick shit.  Fire me and go fuck yourself.  So basically this is the part in the job leaving where I burn the bridge, just to be sure that I can never go back.  So the snarky side is showing a little bit more at work.  Which is always fun for my co-workers.

I have a really bad habit of looking up and to the left when people ask me a question and I’m trying to answer it.  It keeps me from getting my thoughts all tangled.  I’ve been warned that it’s a bad thing to do, by the folks at Job 1, mainly, who are all about improving communication by pointing out what’s wrong with yours and “coaching” you on stopping it.

The problem is, I don’t know how many times I’ve sat down for a conversation on my performance or my development, and I’ve used the wrong word (“but” instead of “however,” because “but” is “more negative sounding”) or broken eye contact for a moment (makes the other person feel like you’re not being honest), and I have been stopped, mid-sentence, INTERRUPTED, only to be told exactly what is wrong with my communication skills.  A ten minute diatribe about the use of the wrong word or the wiggling of a foot or a facial expression ensues, and at the end of it you are supposed to remember what the fuck you were talking about.

How about I tell you what’s wrong with your listening skills?

It’s called a Sexy Mooch

Is it inappropriate to call someone and ask them if you can come over and make out with them and then watch their TV?  Because I would really like to.  He could even stick around for the TV watching if he wanted.  That would be kind of nice.  Because it’s cable.

(It might be inappropriate because I told him a lot of dead baby jokes in the middle of a Panera and he might not call me anymore.  MIGHT not.)

TV Ride

There’s this one channel on my freak television that is kind of like a TV guide.  It’s actually called TV Guide Network, and it’s actually on two channels, 4 and 5, but 4 is a little fuzzy.  Anyway, TV Guide Network gets its jollies from showing really old reality shows and then placing a hot model on a runway somewhere and having her talk about “ooooh what’s going to happen on Big Brother Season II?  Stay tuuuned!!!”  Lately they’ve been showing nonstop episodes of Punk’d.  Remember that show?  It’s basically where Ashton Kutcher would leap around and poop in his pants and talk to a camera in some backstage area while a nearby celebrity would be stepping into a practical joke set up by Ashton and about 12,000 other individuals who should probably have spent their time in some other way.  The practical joke usually involves the celebrity messing up in a way that will really be a PR nightmare, or indirectly messing up in some way that will cost a lot of money.  It’s funny, though, that every time a celebrity is accused of doing something really crappy, they first deny it, then try to blame their assistant, then try to buy their way out of the mess.  Or if they’re Ashley fucking Simpson, they beg their friends to say they did it. 

So I’ve been catching glimpses of these episodes of Punk’d, and I’ve begun to wonder what one has to do to actually get punked.  Do these celebrities know each other in some circle outside of going to the same awards shows and buying drugs from the same guy?  Do celebrities hang out with each other?  If they do, I’m going to puke right now.  I guess I just wonder, while watching these shows, who the hell would ever want to play a practical joke on Hayden Panettiere?  The girl has the personality of an empty trash bag.  Why don’t they just spend less money, go to her house, and ask her to do her “disbelief” look.  She’d do it, I bet.  Just shine a big light on her and holler “DISBELIEF.  ACTION.”  Done.

But I guess they’ll take any excuse to put her on TV because everybody watching the TV pretty much wants to ride her face.

I have been told that in Ye Olde Ancient Roman times, a “punk” was a young boy who served an older man, both as an apprentice on all things manly, a house servant, and a cum dumpster.  To be on the level of “punk” meant that you were being auditioned for upscale, polite society, and if you were a good punk to your master, you would one day have a punk of your own.

In that sense, to be “punked” was to be owned and screwed by an older man.  Basically you were in a very low position of servitude, the lowest, just above slavery.

I’d like to watch someone punk Ashton Kutcher.  Oh yeah I would.  You just got punked!  And punked again, and again, and again…