Mildred got her job back.
She didn’t get her 200 million and she didn’t get Clark’s left testicle, but she got what she really wanted.
She looks very pleased to be back at Hamish.
And that is a testament to just how dedicated and crazy the woman is.
Oh, and we also received a memo from HR saying they’re pleased to announce that: “Effective immediately, Clark Renforth has been transferred to a management position in our Florida Branch, and while the recruitment process is under way, Carlita Paonessa will serve as Acting Manager.”
Clark doesn’t seem too broken up about leaving us.
As he packed up, we all heard him laughing and shouting “Florida? Awesome!”
Later, he danced out of his office and told us all how “sad” he was to be leaving and how much he would miss us.
It would have been easier to believe if he hadn’t been smiling from ear to ear.
He called us a great team and then skipped back into his office and finished packing.
Looks like it’s worked out for Clark and Mildred.
Speaking of Mildred…
When I had a moment alone with her I asked “So, did you steal the pencils?”
She looked me straight in the eye and said “Damn right I stole the pencils, ya eejit. I’ve been here 41 years and I’m entitled to help myself to a box of pencils, the odd stapler and occasional laptop. But if you tell anyone, I’ll cut your balls off.”
I think I gulped.
She burst out laughing and said, “Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies. I didn’t steal the bloody pencils.”
Then she chortled and went back to work.
Yeah, she stole them. I think…?
Oh yeah – she definitely stole them. Now that she’s be reinstated I suspect she’ll be even more … how do I say it … odd.
But do say anything. Don’t even think it. She’ll know and cut off your man-hood.
As for Clarky, I would’ve tripped him and said “Serves you right, boys who skip like little girls and get transfers to Florida deserve to tripped over. Oh – btw – watch out for the man eating alligators!”
Hey Chris,
I think it’s safe to say Mildred will be strutting around like the Hamish cock of the walk. Which considering what she threatened to do to my balls is kind of delightfully ironic.
I was never crazy about Clark and the alligators are welcome to him. Although the night he vomited on Otto will always hold special memories for me.
Memories, like the corners of my mind. Vomit splattered memories, of the night Clark puked…
Ah Omaha – the stuff dreams are made of.
So this all works out well for you, Alan. Any romance between Clark and Carlita is over. Of course now Carlita is your acting boss so any hopes you had of productivity are gone. After all, it is hard to be a good team member when all you can say is Nerking Numping Merkin!
It’s a good thing you kept Mildred’s cubicle intact. That act may save your little Alans.
Finally, you do know that you have to apply for Clark’s position right away don’t you?
Ahahaha…
My “Little Alans” huh? And here I was calling them “My Little Ponies.” Although only to myself. So, please, let’s just keep this between us. I’ve said too much.
Nerking Numping Merkin is the language of love, Claire.
Oh wait, no, that’s French. Maybe if I say the words with a French accent…?
I’m not sure about applying for Clark’s job, but Otto is salivating up a storm. And I gotta say – it ain’t pretty.
Your secret is safe with me.
Too bad you and Carlita don’t speak the same language.
Sacré bleu nerque merquin! à gogo numpe c’est à la carte hors d’œuvre!
;)
show off
Isn’t Carlita Spanish?? What’s with the French?
Bonnet de douche, mon sewer! Bonnet de douche!
Votre Francais – C’est les bolloques du chien!
;)
Oui, mon amis, très bien, magnifique! C’est le nom que j’ai donné à mon petit canard… Comment est York Mills?
Could you guys translate for us dullards who only speak English?
Claire,
Why aren’t you at work?
;)
(PS. Nobbly was writing that I wrote a lot of nonsense, and so I called him my pal, and then wrote back more nonsense… Oh, and I asked him how York Mills was. York Mills now lives with NobblySan. I dumped him off there in a gunny sack last week.)
Ahh… mon cher Alpo, vouz avez moi all wrong.
‘les bollocques du chien’, en angleterre, est un compliment tres grand.
Malheuresement, M. Mills est un right tosseur. Il est getting sur les tits de l’entire bleedin’ neighbourhood.
Aside: I love Franglais – my mate and myself used to have entire email conversations at work in it, just to amuse ourselves and piss off other readers.
Sadly, Miles Kington, who invented Franglais, dies last year.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/7221918.stm
Hahah! Pardon moi, monsieur de Nobbly de San voulle vous avez et trois por all wrong!
Qu’est-ce que c’est que ca? La meme chose. Pour le Rôti de boeuf en sauce c’est la rêve qui chante. Por les bollocques tres bien merde. Toot suite!
P.S. Monsieur Mills et un right tosser superbique mais un fantastique repellent por les Jehovah’s Witness and les Mormons!
Aside: I was speaking French!
Just joshing.
I had no idea that Miles Kington had died. Thanks for the article. A good read. And it’s true: Monsieur Wyman etat le cultural ambassador par excellence.
Je suis en party monster extraordinaire! Ha ha! Tres bien!
OMG I was and you weren’t suppsed to tell! That’s the first (and last) time I read your blog at work and respond!
Shows how shocked I was. I can’t believe I left a trail and I can’t believe you told on me!
I saw what you did to my poor buddy York. He was so sweet. We went through his family albums. You should see Don’s knobby little knees. I’m sure Nobbly is loving having York around.
From what I’ve heard, Nobbly needed someone tall enough to get stuff off the top shelf.
Hah! Ah, Claire.
Sorry. Didn’t mean to draw attention to that. If it’s any consolation, I was at work too! ;)
NobblySan and York are getting along famously (according to Mr. Mills). Although poor York is convinced that NobblySan’s dogs are “giant mice.” But, I gather that York has been very effective at scaring away the local Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons. Plus, York has an endless supply of fascinating stories about socks.
There’s is a complicated symbiotic relationship.
Don’t let Mildred see you blogging at work. She may tell on you.
I’m glad York and Nobbly are getting along.
Socks huh? Maybe Yorks could start a blog called Sock Days?
Sock Days!
Hee hee…
Hee Hee! I hope Nobbly’s treating you well York.
Hee hee!
Oh, we’re having fun.
Whoopee!
Hee hee…
Gosh dang it! This whole Alan-Carlita hooking up thing is totally over now. Any possibility of you two bumpin’ nerkins is completely in my dreams now. Wow, that’s quite scary seeing it typed out. Me thinks I need a hobby.
Bumpin’ nerkins is one of America’s favorite pastimes.
Don’t give up hope yet, RR. I know I haven’t. Anything can happen…
Fine, but I’m only giving you six years to make this happen. Then I’m out!
Hahaha! That seems like a reasonable request.
You’re a scholar, a gentleman, and a rooster.
I guess you’ll be working … er… under Carlita now.
;)
Why… Yes, I will!
Happy days, these…
And if this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up!
Off to Florida, eh? The land of cocaine and bikinis. No wonder he’s smiling. I’m sure Mike was right behind him, telling him loudly and offensively about all the blow and trim he’d be fielding down there.
I guess Miami would be a great place for doors and windows, what with all the hurricanes and drive-by shootings.
Tony Montana was right when he said, “Miami. First you get the contacts, then you get the sales, then you get to leverage your manufacturing strengths and short lead times to force the competition to react rather than act.
You’ll see here on slide four, that those bitches from the panhandle cannot effectively deliver their product due to lead time issues.
We can take these fuckers down! We can guarantee 4-7 days even on custom orders, and our linked system allows for instantaneous updates anywhere within our service area.
Slide five deals with this same area, which has seen those bastards at Miami Beach Window move in quickly to seize some of our customers. We can get those back, using a multi-step plan that includes managerial visits, cold calls, intimidation, hijacking and chainsaws.
We can tweak some of these to fit each situation by I must tell you that the chainsaw needs to remain. It has proven its effectiveness repeatedly. Our competition are like that nutless Tomas. They haven’t got the fuckin balls or the fuckin brains to step up.”
Yup, Florida, land of Walt’s cryogenic head the laziest gang that couldn’t shoot straight – The Florida Highway Patrol.
This Tony Montana fellow… Is he the guy that did all those surgical operations on Michelle Pfeiffer? If so, I like his work. Plus his slide shows and motivational speeches are legendary.
I remember being blown away by his “hardball” windows speech. I know it by heart…
“You all a bunch of fuckin’ assholes. You know why? You don’t have the guts to sell windows hardball. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin’ fingers and say, “That’s the guy knows how to sell a window. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.”
I believe this may be his Powerpoint presentation. He certainly knows how to make a point.
He does indeed.
What’s brilliant about it is the refreshing lack of images of windows and doors. It’s a very subtle sales pitch.
love this! pacino rocks! love this accent/
Hey Lynn!
My favourite Pacino film is Dog Day Afternoon.
Oh, hey?
Can I throw a quick plug in here for my wife’s new photoblog?
http://tetramaster.wordpress.com/
I’ll have an official post coming tomorrow over at my place, but I thought, what the hell, I’ll stop here first as long as you’re up…
Of course!
Any wife of yours is a friend of ours! ;)
I look forward to checking it out.
Wow CLT, That is SO cool! And so trusting… does your poor wife know what she’s in for posting here?
Oh wait.. she is married to you isn’t she? That woman must have balls of steel…
“do yer ken john peel with his knob of steel
and his balls of brass and his corrugated arse…”
Oops, sorry, we’ve had so much bloddy rain here I thought I was back in a the rugby communal team bath having a sing song with a pint or two…
dave
Hah!
Great song.
A rugby communal team bath sounds like a most unique experience. Add beer into the mix, and, well, wow…
Had to admit, I thought at first that was a reference to the DJ, John Peel, but then did a bit of checking.
Always good to learn new things!
I’ll try and warn her as the comments start flowing in.
I already gave her the head’s-up on the talking dog.
http://tetramaster.wordpress.com/2009/07/27/dials/#comment-9
Yep. She married me. The balls of steel transfer took place during the reading of our handwritten vows. I think it may have been a typo, but I can’t imagine what it was supposed to say.
She has a great site!
“He talks in maths and buzzes like a fridge. He’s like a detuned radio.”
Hahahaha…
Not bad for a dog head. I also float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. No wait, that’s some other guy.
Still, Muhammad Ali and I do have one thing in common. We both had a song written about us by Johnny Wakelin & The Kinshasa Band…
Alan (The White Businessman)
This is a story of a guy we know
Who had his name changed, changed to Alpo
He knows how to fax and work the phone
And knows that the bank will never give him a loan
Sing, Alan, Alan Truitt
He says he’s happy at Hamish but he’s full of shit
Alan, the white businessman
Whose desperate cry is, “someone save me if you can!”
Now for fans of drones, he’s your pal
That ineffectual guy named Al
He correlates paper and can photocopy too
To answer their question “Al, what good are you?”
Alpo, was known to have said
I hate my job, I wish I was dead
He moves like the white businessman
And cries out, “someone save me if you can!”
Brilliant!
Not bad for a dog’s head, indeed!
Today’s artists, especially the ones I hate, could learn a thing or two about lyrical composition from this Johnny Wakelin.
“moves like a white businessman” – positively Hitchcockian in its evocative simplicity.
Well, that’s just music to my ears.
:)
You and Ali also have that whole uncontrollable shaking thing going on, but his is from being in the ring and yours is from hiding behind the copiers.
Hahaha!
These words you speak are true.
;)
Yeah she stole them… didn’t she? Course she did… I hope.
I think she did. Yeah, she did. I think so. Maybe… I hope she did too…
Woah Alan! Do you know what this means? Carlita will be your boss! It’s a great chance for you! (And great scandalous office drama for US!)
Clark has got the luck. I mean, FLORIDA??? How lucky! But don’t go around wishing you’re the one on Mildread’s nerves instead. You might end up in hell instead of Florida!
Watch out! Mildread has eyes for your balls
:(
“Mildread has eyes for your balls”
Hah!
If ever a statement has made me jump out of my chair in horror and then do a “quick search” for them, it is that one!
Hahaha…
Hey, Anonymously Secret.
Florida gets hot as hell, doesn’t it? ;)
Yes, this is my big chance to “score” points with my new boss. I’ll try to go easy on the “nerks.”
Whoo hoo!
Hey, Alan :)
Whoops sorry! Did I make you panic? Don’t worry, I’m sure they are still there. LOL.
You need to learn a new phrase. Instead of nerks and numps, try something new, like bumps and toots.
Have fun with Carlita!
(Don’t do crazy stuff [with her] in her office)
Thanks, Anonymously Secret!
Everything’s still where it’s meant to be. Thank goodness!
“nerks and numps and bumps and toots”
Hah! That sounds like a series of 1970’s groovy dance steps!
:)
PS: I’ll keep the crazy stuff in the elevator. Where it belongs.
Go Mildred! She’s my hero.
She’s back and ready to bust Hamish ass!
That’s her new superhero slogan.
Nice to see you, Bernice!
That’s awesome for everybody! Mildred’s happy, and now maybe you can get in on some of her action. There is a lot of cash in the stolen pencil and stapler racket! Laptops, not so much. Just blackmail her or something; we’ll work it out later!
I lived in Florida for 5 good years. It’s a perfect fit for Clark; by the weekend he’ll be waist deep in booze and blow, dating an astronaut in diapers, counting chads, speaking Spanish, and running hurricane disaster relief scams!
You are going to have to prepare for ‘Carlita the boss’ my friend. I figure what you do is this…
Land an account with the National Education Resource Kibbutz. Then, when she asks what you are working on you can reply naturally, “Nerk.” As your acting boss you’ll have a lot of interaction with her. With her brand new expense account, she will be taking you to TGIF! After a couple of their “best in the business” Long Island Iced Tea’s, you will be sufficiently loosened up to sweet talk her over the Popcorn Brownie Sundae!
Good Merkins!!
This is all wonderful stuff, Scott, but where the hell are you???
I’m still in Clearwater. You seem to still be in Spain.
Part II of Alan Truitt’s story of going undercover inside the spaced out world of The Church of Scientology.
“Part The 1” can be read at: http://zodiblog.wordpress.com/2009/07/24/im-still-lost/#comments
SCIENTOLOGIST “Honeysuckle” a dead eyed, vacantly smiling waif wearing an ET t-shirt, presses a book by the movement’s pernicious founder, L Ron Hubbard, into my hand and says: “This book can change your life. Either by reading it or by having some of our members beat you with it. Either way, you’re in for a real treat!”
It is less than five minutes since I walked into the Church of Scientology’s headquarters in Clearwater and someone’s already stolen my wallet.
Honeysuckle straps some electrodes to my head and tells me how I will achieve more in life “real soon” because my mind is about to be cleared of anything negative. I ask where “Tommy Boy” is, and for the first time her plastered-on smile vanishes. She then throws the switch on the generator and laughs as my body sizzles and I soil myself.
Later she invites me to take a stress test and gives me two metal handles to hold. She then begins to scream at me non-stop.
At intervals, a needle fluctuates wildly as my stress levels shoot up and Honeysuckle demands to know what was on my mind. Each time I tell her that I want to go home, she replies with, “No you don’t.”
Preparing to cram a probe up my netherworlds, she then tells me many people contacted the church after Tom began his “testifying.”
“One day soon he will impregnate us all with his golden seed,” she says. “Of course, it will be through artificial insemination as the great Tom is too pure to touch our pestilent and mortal skin.”
“Plus I hear he’s gay,” I joke.
She then sticks Hubbard’s book on “dianetics” in my mouth because she doesn’t have a piece of rubber for me to bite on, jams up the probe “tom style” and announces she is about to change my life.
Later, when I come to, I tell Honeysuckle, yes, I’m interested in learning more, and would she please put down the carving knife? She swiftly hands me another book. It highlights the shortcomings of man and the destruction of the natural world, praising Hubbard. She warns me that as a volunteer I will have to pay to become qualified. When I explain that my wallet has already been taken from me, she asks for my bank account information.
I tell her I’ve heard mixed reports about Scientology, but she dismisses my fears by injecting me with a serum and saying: “People always have reservations about something they don’t understand. I used to be the same way about tofu.”
I’m then dragged down a hall by a figure in a hood and given a personality test with 200 questions. Some seem geared towards finding a weak spot in my character:
You will agree to “strict discipline” okay?
Would the idea of making a complete new start cause you much concern? If so, does your family know where you are right now?
Do you like sleep deprivation and forced brainwashing? If you say yes, you might meet Tom Cruise!
May we give you a new name? Say yes, and we’ll feed you!
Do you like hanging out at airports passing out literature? Say yes and we’ll let you sleep!
You often feel depressed, don’t you? Come on, admit it!!!!
Do you often ponder over your own inferiority? You should.
You’re depressed, why? Better yet, just check off “yes” for “Are you depressed?”
Once it’s over and I’ve gone through the purification ritual, I find a corner to weep in. Honeysuckle sprays me down with a hose and says she is looking forward to seeing what the results tell her about myself. She then laughs menacingly and tosses me a stale biscuit.
TOMORROW: MORE FUN AND NEW METHODS OF TORTURE THAT MAKE ABU GHRAIB SEEM LIKE AN AMUSEMENT PARK
This deserves it’s own blog, but that would attract the loons so keep this story within a story semi-secret here.
Agreed, el presidente!
In the safety of the thread.
FYI: Things get even weirder on Day 3.
;)
Holy mother of Godiva!
First of all I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. There was a wildfire that has been devouring large portions of Southern Spain, and it knocked our electricity out. I’m not at all sure that the fire was not set by our mutual friends.
This thing runs so much deeper than either of us thought. I was on the phone all night with Joe Pistone, and Nutless Tom. Donnie, I mean Joe said that you’re freakin nuts man. You’re in way, way too deep. Tommy Black or Tom Cruise as he’s known to the outside world is a dangerous mother fucker man. And he’s a God damned hot-head to boot. Look what he did to Matty Lauer from Roker’s crew. For what? Defending that poor broad, Brook? Now look at him; the dude can’t even function, his nerves are shot and I hear he’s developed a speech impediment. His own crew is thinking of whacking him out over this!!
You think the first day was bad, wait till they send in a hungry Kirsty Alley and a sober “My Name is Earl” guy. Those two will make your Abu Ghraib seem like a lazy Sunday in bed, reading the Times and watching 24 hour news with your Argentine mistress. I also just got an inside scoop that John Travolta has asked Dick Cheney to take you hunting. They’ve asked Senator Kennedy to take you swimming. They’ve asked Kevin Costner to be in your next movie! You are fucking dead man! Get out now!
During the night I also received a strange call from Nutless Tom who sounded distracted and nervous. He gave me a very cryptic, coded message to pass on to you….…
1-Find the wallet; it’s the one that says ‘BMF’
2-Honeysuckle is NOT turkey!
3-Spit the golden seed; do NOT swallow!!!!
Before he could continue I heard a commotion in the background, followed by the sound of roasting chestnuts, followed by much weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Do you know what these people did to the Wikipedia guy? They put his head in a fucking vice man! Until his eyeball popped out of his head. Just get out now! We are planning to put you in the Scientologist protection program, code name….Cruise Control. We have a whole subdivision in Quaker Valley PA. The scientologists and Quakers don’t mix. Not after the bloodbaths of the 80’s. They can’t get to you there.
Just come in Alan, it’s over man. It’s over!
Hah! Scott. Very nice, man.
It’s epic and it’s awesome and the hungry Kirstie Alley reference is delightfully prescient.
There have been moments when I’ve wondered why you never showed up. This fire excuse of yours… It seems awfully convenient. ;)
More on my plight a little bit later on.
I’m trying to compose myself and stop weeping. There’s no escape right now, it seems. I’m locked in a cell, and…
Like I said, more soon… Once I compose my shattered thoughts.
(I’m not sure if I’ll ever see the sun again.)
Please, send money!
I’ll be eagerly awaiting your next report! You gotta get out of there! Let me leave you with one last question Alan; did you ever hear of an ex-scientologist? Think about that buddy!
Scott… It’s all true.
EXCLUSIVE: GETTING INSIDE THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY
Part III of Alan Truitt’s story of going undercover inside the spaced out world of The Church of Scientology.
IT’S 9am, I’ve just been hosed down again and injected with more serum. Honeysuckle looks at me with a mixture of contempt and pity and yet she somehow still manages to maintain her vacant smile and dead eyes.
She tells me I’m depressed, anxious and nervous. She says I’m wingy, dingy, nutty, fruity, kooky, loopy, and poopy. She has analyzed the results from my personality test and the contents in my pants.
But there is a way for me to confront my problems: Scientology! The truth is, other than the fact that she has all my money and banking information and that I haven’t slept for more than 2 hours in the past couple of days, I have no worries at present and have never suffered from depression. I’ve always considered myself an outgoing, confident guy, whereas the test results insist that I’m inhibited, repressed, and also a “total freaking homosexual.” Hmm, maybe this will be my chance to meet Tom…
I’m introduced to a more senior woman called “Neptune 3” and told she will be able to help me. I’m not asked if I want to be helped – and so I politely inform Neptune 3 that I’ll be leaving now.
She tells me I’m free to go, IF, I can get break free from her hammerlock wrestling hold.
After pinning me to the ground and twisting my leg behind my neck, she says she wants to set my life straight as it’s in disarray. I’m not sure if she’s referring to the pretzel position she has me twisted into or my alleged homosexuality. I finally say “Uncle Ron” and she releases me from her grip.
Within five minutes there’s a gun jammed in my back and I’m signing up to a $499.50 Dianetics course – and after a quick snack break (3 dried noodles and an animal cracker) I’m led upstairs to a small classroom and chained to a desk.
An Icelandic man and an elderly Romanian crone are softly crying while poring over textbooks and filling in answers. A supervisor called “Ernst 13” (with a patch on one eye and riding crop) scares the hell out of all of us.
I’m taught that the church believes a person is made up of their “thetan”, mind and body. The thetan is the person’s spirit and never dies – it merely uses the mind and body as a vehicle. When I question this whole “thetan” nonsense, Ernst the evil supervisor tells me that if I don’t fall in line quickly they will have me killed. When I counter with “but my thetan will still live, right?” I am slapped across the face and injected with more drugs. They seem to help calm me down…
I’m introduced to a new supervisor called “Vapor 6” a short man with glasses who smells like an old chimpanzee. He commands us to begin studying and then informs us that picture books, wooden building blocks and pebbles are on hand in case we can’t understand something.
Studying is from 9am to 6pm. At noon a bucket is brought out and Vapor 6 tells us that if we are good, one day we will be allowed to urinate into it. Until then we are cryptically ordered to “suck it up.”
A poor young lad beside me cannot hold it in. He whimpers and urinates himself. Vapor 6 presses a button and soon two men in hoods drag the terrified and screaming fellow out. I never see him again.
Later, a chain is put around my neck and I and several other new recruits are ushered down into a basement cinema to watch a glossy film about Scientology. It stars the wildly successful actress Kirstie Alley. She tells us how Scientology has helper her. As best as I can tell, it’s helped her put on about 300 pounds.
The film blames other religions for the materialism of mankind and the destruction of the planet. Ironically, it also focuses on Hubbard’s commercial success and the fortune he made. He is even compared to Buddha and Superman.
It’s recommended I buy seven essential books, as well as DVDs. Total cost $5000. I begin to object and point out the hypocrisy of Scientologists blaming other religions of materialism while bleeding me financially dry, but suddenly Kirstie Alley is in the room!
She begins pointing at certain recruits with a hungry look in her eye and barking orders at the staff.
“I’ll take him, and her, she looks nice and beefy, and ooooh, that chubby guy looks like a tasty one, lots of juicy tenderloin on him. Ha, ha, ha! God, it’s great to be free of Jenny Craig.”
She grunts, snorts and yells as the supervisors follow her frightening and inconceivable orders. “Hurry up and get them shaved and down to ‘Butchery 101′ pronto to have them prepared. And make it snappy, I’m barbecuing tonight and I’m hungry,” she says.
I try to escape, but I’m too weak. I collapse on the floor. It is nice and cool. The screams of my fellow recruits are the last thing I hear before everything goes black.
TOMORROW: THINGS GET WEIRD…
This sounds spookily like based on reality.
Are you truly an escapee?
dave
I once wrote a song called R.U.N.S.K.P.?
No. I’m not. It is based on a true story.
Although I’m pretty sure Ms. Alley isn’t a cannibal.
Pretty sure, anyway…
I give up. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there is no stopping you. I can see your life barreling down the track, headed straight for a steel girder and all I can do is honor you by not looking away. You’re obviously hell bent on exposing these people and obsessed with the need to make the untouchables among us pay. All I can do now is light a candle at St. Mary’s and leave the tapes rolling.
It goes without saying that if you see a way out, call me and I’ll send in the fucking kill boys. But I think we are both smart enough to know that it is way too late for that. All I can say is God bless you man; tell your story.
I’ll make sure you get that posthumous Pulitzer.
But we of The Truly Sickies will valiantly populate the battlements of blogland and defend our great muse from being attacked by the loons.
Problem is I suppose, the bastards are already inside the virtual world.
I know, we’ll get up a rota to visit alan when he is incarcerated in whichever nuthouse ‘they’ plonk him in.
Bags I the lunchtime slot?
El Pres
Hahaha,
Dave: Please bring solid food and beer. I’m getting tired of their animal crackers and dried berries.
Scott: Very kind of you on the posthumous Pulitzer, but I plan to survive and beat these people — and meet Tom Cruise!
;)
Well that would be the greatest upset since Buster Douglas beat Tyson. Or since Tyson beat mental illness! Oh wait. That would be awesome, anyway. I’ll keep your candle lit!
Bless you, Scott.
Actually, I’ve decided that Scientology is good. Join us, won’t you?
Hah!
Just kidding.
I’m hanging in there. And while I suspect only you and President Dave are reading these chronicles, it remains imperative that I continue to write them… For future genertions. Yup. I’m doing it for the children.
The end is close (let’s say two more installments), I can feel it…
EXCLUSIVE: GETTING INSIDE THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY
Part IV of Alan Truitt’s story of going undercover inside the spaced out world of The Church of Scientology.
Kirstie Alley has claimed her victims and left for her barbecue. No lie, her ass is the size of Rhode Island and it took three volunteers and a plunger to get it through the door. I am lucky. I am told I have been spared, “this time.”
I’m then slapped around by a supervisor called “Gorgon 29” for the simple reason that – as she blithely puts it – “I’m a big shot here and you’re nothing but a mouse turd.”
I’m then un-handcuffed and given the chance to practice “auditing” on an inanimate object. This is an essential technique which helps students to address negative memories, called engrams, that are holding back true potential.
I sit in front of a cardboard box. I’m then judged on my ability to hold a conversation with the box and told off for not directing my gaze at it as I speak. Eventually my inability to “do it right” infuriates them and I am stuffed inside the cardboard box. It is then taped up and a few air holes are poked into it. I am told this is my new home. Given all the money they have taken from me, it’s about all I can now afford.
Sometime later, I’m released and informed that I’ll be taking part in “group processing” with seven other students. They all look as nervous as I feel as a supervisor in leather bondage gear and a whip gives us commands which we are to follow.
He cracks the whip and repeats: “Feel the pain. Thank you. You are a worm. Thank you. Feel the pain. Thank you. You are a worm. Thank you.”
For a bizarre hour these are the only words I hear. It actually becomes kind of a catchy little tune that I can’t get out of my sleep-deprived head. A Scientology ear worm.
The man then flogs us all while repeating: “You have arrived.”
We lie bleeding and moaning for five minutes. Then it begins again – 30 more minutes of nothing except the man repeating: “Feel the pain. You are a worm. Thank you.”
An eerie silence fills the room. Gorgon 29 produces a handgun and says she is about to “fail certain students” I listen in horror as the shots ring through the room. Will I survive?
TOMORROW: WELL, IF IT’S TOMORROW THEN OBVIOUSLY I SURVIVED – FOR NOW…
Certain edge of SM going on here boss?
They really know how to crack the whip!
;)
I love how you are now the gimp! That might be a fun role to play, unless Kirsty wants to play then you are screwed in every sense of the word.
If you live then we are going to make millions by writing a book, which will become a movie. Then we will do an international tour to promote it. I was talking to Joe Pistone again last night and he assured me that was the way to go. I’m seeing you being played by Tom Cruise. I’ll be played by Brad Pitt cause… well come on. Kirsty alley will be played by Delta Burke. And Nutless Tom will be played by ?? I’ll leave that up to you. And Dave will have to decide on his representation.
If you tragically don’t make it back, then I’m sure that you would still want your story to be told. So you won’t mind that I already took advances from Random House and Universal Pictures? Nah you won’t mind!
I felt so much better after talking to Joe. Do you have any idea how much money Donnie Brasco made? Anyway I hope you have all the best luck! Don’t suffocate or anything. Ha. You would never guess in a million years who I’m about to have lunch with!
Bwaa ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Wait a minute…
The “meet me in Clearwater…”
The “I’ll be there soon, buddy…”
The “Hang on, help is on it’s way..”
Scott…
I…
… Wait!
Kirsty is back!
gasp!
…And she’s hungry!
I would play god, of course!
Hahahahahahaha!
“President god”
God!:lol:
Not the Big G, no way!!
I don’t want to remind her about me, so I won’t annoy her anymore.
But, I’d be a little g god, small time, limited power, local influence that stuff.
Sitting off stage during the filming, reminding all that it’s just a story, not meant to be a fecking life style that abuses and corrupts, handing out small thunderbolts if folk get too serious.
I see this role as a god quite compatible with being pres of TS, but I promise not to become a mini-Saddam who ran a similar title line if I recall correctly.
Taken care of, Dave!
;)
And, of course, you will never be mistaken for a a mini-Saddam… Unless that’s something like a mini-van… In which case… Can I get a lift to the grocery story?
bad comedy drum rimshot
:)
Not with my driving skills…
you’d better start wearing an athletic protector cup to work
I have been since day one.
:)
Oh wow! You’re in such a fortunate position now!
You know, “doing” the boss gives you that extra little bit of leverage! DO HER Alan, DO HER NOW …. there’s no time to waste …. your next bonus may depend on your errr performance!
Your enthusiasm is wonderfully refreshing, Julie. Wonderfully refreshing. The caps on DO HER practically had me tingling and certainly provided no shortage of motivation to DO HER and DO HER NOW! And might I add DO HER GOOD!
I’m certainly hoping for a large Xmas bonus and will make sure that I don’t do anything that might prematurely cause Carlita concern and spoil her arousal in my job performance. Perhaps it’s time to invest in some night classes on proper business techniques and a course on management positions. Oh, and maybe I’ll buy a cock ring.
;)
Mildred… Lol *head shaking*.
Hope Clark’s replacement will be much better!
I have a feeling the ill winds are blowing in a portentous new monster…
Hah. I’ve always wanted to say that!
And now I have.
Guess I can cross that off the list.
;)
Damn that Carlita. I tried for the temporary manager position but she nabbed it. Something about her being the most productive or some other bs was the excuse I got.
Carlita told management that she knew for a fact you made it a habit of telling old men to go fuck themselves.
http://crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com/2009/07/25/affronts-to-old-people-3-damned-young-people-and-their-rude-t-shirts/#comments
I told you WackSack would come back to bite you on the ass…
Damn me and my extracurricular activities.
The dangers of the internet.
Is there no safe place to tell an old man to “go fuck himself” anymore?
But isn’t he like your uncle or some other distant relative? Can’t you put in a good word for me with management that it was all a joke.
Hah!
He doesn’t listen to a word I say.
Just swats me and says “Pour me a rye, damn it!”
I think you can at Fancy Plans… and Pants to Match. In fact, Clive Fucking Cussler has been invited to go at it with himself on numerous occasions.
I guess it’s easier if you’re not related.
I assume ASCAP is loaded with old men. They may also form a Moebius gang-banging strip with themselves as well.
John Updike? I only wish. I told him to go fuck himself several times, but he always insists on some bizarre onanistic foreplay. I feel embarrassed for him.
Rolling Stone editors? Bah. They’ve been told as well, but they mumbled something thru their stuffed mouths that they were still busy with Obama and the NEXT BIG THING had already called dibs.
NME were interested in this “NEXT BIG THING” as well, but were easily distracted by some shiny objects and tit photos.
Maybe you’re right and I’m just proving your point for you.
Hahaha…
Ah, the joys of watching an internal comedic conversation.
Seriously though…
How did you know that I was related to Clive Fucking Cussler?
And how on earth did you find out that his middle name was “Fucking”? I was pretty sure that was family secret. Did I say something the last time we were out drinking?
Did you overhear me talking about it at the Cracker show?
You know, that moment when I screamed out “Play ‘Sweet Potato’ because I’m related to Clive Cussler – and his middle name is ‘Fucking!” Wahoo, ya man! Party! I’m more loaded than Clive ‘Fucking’ Culler!”
Or was it one of the other times?
Yes. The joys of watching indeed. I can only imagine the frozen grin of barely-restrained panic gracing your lips as you tried to parse my badly-mangled phrases.
First of all, I replied in the wrong spot. It was supposed to be a follow-up to “is there no safe place to tell an old man to ‘go fuck himself’.
And the relation would be the intricate web of headgames that is York and Don Mills. Hence, not related.
This may not clear up anything in the next few paragraphs, so feel free to repaste that horrified grin on your face and watch me disappear up my own hash pipe.
However, the classic “C.F. Cussler” and your apparent relation is welcome to continue its stagger towards the Sick Days In-Joke Hall of Fame.
I’ll throw in a few votes myself.
Haha!
No, I completely picked that up.
And was loving it, I might add.
And please remember, when things like this happen, it’s not your fault.
The blame falls squarely on the shoulders of my uncle, Clive Fucking Cussler.
And now I’m off to follow yo up that hash pipe.
PS. Your Juanita reference. Too rich! Clark’s original replacement was to be named Juanita. Once again, you have beaten me to the Juanita tree. But I don’t blame you. Nope, I blame my Uncle Clive Fucking Cussler.
It’s at this point that people begin to ask, “Do you have some sort of personal vendetta against Cussler?”
And I say, “No. No. No. Put that defamation lawsuit down. This is just some good-natured ribbing, much like was the selling point of the overpriced and underperforming condom that resulted in the conception of Dirk Fucking Cussler.”
And they say, “It was rhetorical, asshole. See you in court.”
And I yell back, “Not if I see you first! Smooches!”
Hey! That’s my fucking cousin, Dirk Fucking Cussler, you’re talking about!
(I think I’m about to fall off my chair in hysterics.)
That’s alright. It will all just sail over Dirk’s head, much like the overpriced and underperforming condom did to Mrs. Cussler when she failed to follow the… um… “mounting” instructions printed on the package.
On the condom package.
Hahahahahahaha!
Mrs. Cussler was never quite right after her first (or was it her second?) condom accident.
The poor dear. It not only took out her left eye but when she pulled it out, she accidentally snorted it up her nose and the latex got up into her temporal lobe and gave her “a bit” of a lobotomy.
Legend has it that after that she learned to really enjoy her husband’s books.
HAHAHA!!!
And not a moment too soon, as he had cranked out another novel during their 90-second romp. It was the highlight of his week, and hers too, post-lobotomy.
I remember that one: The Latex Files. It was about a brilliant investigator searching for a high-tech condom that had gone astray. It was stolen by a one eyed Russian midget with Tsarist ambitions and a lobotomized donkey with explosive diarrhea.
I’ll never forget the denouement:
“Look, there it is, comrade. Kind of hanging off the laundry basket in the corner. We just really didn’t look there before.”
The midget gathered the condom and his stepladder, mounted the donkey and rode off into the foul-smelling sunset.
“To another adventure, eh comrade?”
The donkey said nothing and shat loudly on the driveway.
The midget chuckled gruffly and pulled the donkey’s halter.
“Come on, Balki. Let’s go push some Viagra.”
Without a doubt it is one of the finest moments in great literature…
The step ladder was such a brilliant touch. So, unexpected, so poignant, so subtle, so Fucking Cusslerian.
Top o’ the Merkin to ya, Alpo! How are things going today with Carlita at the helm? Let me tell ya’ something my little pooch…..I think you should throw your name into the pot for Clark’s position. Seems like the office pool, in general, already comes to you for advice, an important factor in a management position. And, you certainly know how to weasel yourself out of tight situations, another important attribute of a manager. You also seem to have the “Yes” thing down to a science. I’m sure you possess many other outstanding attributes, but since I haven’t been around that long, those are three that come to mind. So….go ahead….start typing up that resume! And, that’s an order!
Go for it mate!
The fact that Gordon Brown can be British PM, or Gee Dubya could have been head honcho of the US of A (twice!), should serve as inspiration for underachievers everywhere.
Hah!
Truer words were never spoken, NobblySan.
I think I might start a campaign going to elect York Mills as next PM of Great Britain.
Hope you guys had a nice weekend. (Did he show you his collection of socks?)
The old duffer actually proved to be useful this weekend.
Before I could stop him, he answered a knock at the front door. To my delight it was a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses out ‘on the pull’ for converts.
York was in his element – people who seemed interested in talking to him!
The poor buggers – I don’t think they’ll be back.
Hahaha!
He has the same effect on Mormons!
Glad to hear he’s proving to be of some usefulness.
Hahahaaha.. Too rich….
Why thank you, yorksnbeans…
I think.
And a top o’ the Merkin to you too! The reign of Carlita has so far been uneventful. She grouped as all into a room and told us she was our “new ruler” laughed and then dismissed us. It was a brief but informative meeting.
As for me and my ability to do the “yes man” and “weasel” thing… Well, you’re too kind… I think… But I’m not sure I’m management material. I had always been hopeful that in time I would be able to get the hell out of here and live on a boat. Or at the very least slip into the role of “office drone.” Although Farook seems to have that market cornered (that is when he’s not acting insane in a most troubling fashion).
Other than that, I am sadly lacking in outstanding attributes. I wrote a list. It’s kind of depressing…
My Outstanding Attributes
I look good in a sultan’s onion skin hat
I once dated a hand model
I always wear pants
I own two pairs of shoes
I rarely burp
I have clean hair
I can handle my Kool-Aid
I once saw a guy to a thing to a woodpecker
I have a cool Porky Pig piggybank
I own several ties
You are way too modest dearest pooch. Even though I might not have known you for long, I have been able to assess the following:
1. You are adorable
2. You have a keen eye for merkins
3. You never say anything unkind about anyone
4. You are an alpha dog
5. You know who to stay clear of (although you must learn how to make them stay clear of you).
6. You are highly adept at making friends
7. You know how to tell a joke!
I’ll take a gamble on the following:
8. You’re good at the Texas 4-Step
9. You always can smell a rat (or cat for that matter)
10. You behave, if you’re fed well.
You just made my day!
My Texas 4-Step still needs work, but I’m practicing!
I have been able to assess the following about you, my friend…
1. You too are adorable
2. You have a keen eye for merkin aficionados
3. You never say anything unkind about anyone
4. You have a fabulous get away place
5. You have a terrific blog
6. You are highly adept at making all kinds of new pals
7. You’re funny and you say the nicest things!
I’ll take a gamble on the following:
8. Your hair isn’t really pink
9. You have a chili recipe that is fabulous
10. You own a boat
I’ll sleep really well tonight!! :-)
;)
Me too!
I hope that you both did?
And that the sleep was good?
It was, thanks, Dave.
If, as according to our old buddy, Goya, “The sleep of reason produces monsters” then “The sleep of eight hours produces a well rested Hamish drone.”
Bluudy heck, an overdose of snoozing! 8 HOURS
No one was more surpised than me!
Hi Alan,
Mildred the Matron is back! Woo Hoo! And, for the record, I do not think she stole pencils or anything else! People of our generation have a different set of values, Alan, laddy. It will be interesting to watch the dynamics between she and the fetching Carlita now, for sure.
Speaking of the latter, I would play it cool with her for now. I am sure your fellow male cast of Hamish characters will be making fools of themselves with Carlita in no time – you could be looking real good by default!
As for the late, Clark: Florida in August? What is hot? What is sticky? What is mosquito-laden? NO ONE likes Florida in the summer or fall (hurricane season) that covers about 6-months of Hell!
Ta ta,
Sally P :)
PS: Where exactly is your office located anyway? I don’t believe you have ever said here…
Hi Sally P.
Yes, she’s back. I kind of think she stole them. But this is a discussion for another day.
She just walked into my office and asked me “Were you using ma bloody stapler while I was away, ya damn git?”
Uh oh…
Nice tap-dancing, Alan. Did you actually think that I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t answer my query re: WHERE IS HAMISH LOCATED??
SP ;0
Thanks Sally P!
I studied tap-dancing at The Arthur Murray School of Dance.
Graduated suma cuma laude in tap with a minor in tango.
;)
And I am SURE there is a BS in there someplace as well…
SP
BS — Ballroom Steps. It was an elective. I didn’t take it.
WWWEEEEEEEE! I really missed Mildred.
I’m thinking the time has come to hook her up with Robert J.
She’s probably old enough to be his mother, which I think is what Robert J is looking for in a woman.
:lol:
EEWWwww, I don’t want to think about that.
Did I tell you about our newest travel plans? They’re almost as bad as the first ones.
Hahaha!
I’ll be over very soon. Can’t wait!
;)
I’ll wip out thy o’l D&D board in preperation.
Excelsior!
Riot!
It’s your attention to the details that I find so impressive. That, and your hilarious blog.
Excelsior!
Well thanks for the kind words Al! You flatter me, especially as a snot-nosed fanboy who dreams of having a blog as funny & popular as yours.
As for “attention to the details,” I’m not entirely sure what you mean. If it’s in reference to preparations, I thought we covered this. My planned preparations start with preparation A being “rejoice for Robert J is fired,” & ending with preparation Z being “find a new job because Rob is now your boss.” I believe “wip out thy o’l D&D board,” is preparation H…
That was way too long of a story for one dumb pun, sorry…
Made me laugh!!!! ( see laughing face below )
:lol:
Alan!
This is so weird…I was just doing some online research for my latest Social Experiment, entitled “The Business of Giant Floral Patterned Scrotal Tissue Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle: a Case Report”, and when I Googled the key terms, your post popped up. Small world, hey? Anyway, I thought I would stick around to give you some advice.
Whatever you do, do not let Mildred out of your sight. I mean, not so much because of the pencills…hell, to tell you the truth, I’m not anything like that woman and I’m sure I’ve pinched every type of supply that isn’t nailed down to the floor at one time or another.
No, the reason you need to keep your guard up is because any woman who chortles in public (or sniggers, titters and gurgles for that matter), is not playing with a full deck, and there’s no telling what she’s capable of. In a few months from now she could start guffawing…or worse yet, LOSTL’ing!!! And then what would you do???
I guess I just worry, that’s all.
Anyway, I should probably get back to my research, I have a feeling this experiment is going to be taking up quite a bit of my time…I mean, obviously, since it’s such a massive issue and all!! Or should I say massive “tissue” and all?? Ha!
(sorry, inside joke)
When did you last get fresh air into your lungs BTW?
dave
Presidente Dave,
I have spent the last two weeks holed up inside researching the where’s and how’s of groin mauling.
Now that I can hand (oh Matron!) my findings over to bschooled, I plan to find a beach and then stick my head in the sand.
While playing a ukulele.
It’s quite a trick!
Here is a piece to strum along to;
It comes to life at 1 min 15 secs!
For more on this brill orchestra, hop to;
http://www.ukuleleorchestra.com/main/home.aspx?SessionKey=
dave
That was great. Some friends of mine recently saw a group of guitarists (I think there was something ridiculous like a hundred of them) that performed Ennio Morricone’s music. Wish I could remember the name of them.
Let me do some digging.
Good lord! His instincts took over and he buried them all!
And I buried them on the lone prairie.
‘Cause that’s where you bury them.
According to the song.
And Uncle Clive Fucking Cussler.
Uncle CF and his unsolicited advice! What a card! What a maroon! What a douche!
You could barely fit a word in edgewise with him, what with his hardon for Jackie Bisset, his incessant instructions about where to bury what, his blathering idiot son urinating in the foyer, his mind-numbing recounting of the time when some fucking boat did some fucking thing and he just happened to be there with his massive forearms and his huge fucking watch and performed some feat of derring-do that made all the women present simultaneously spread their legs (and some of the men, too) before returning some fucking artifact to its rightful fucking owner blah blah blah fucking blah.
Plus, his farts stink.
Seriousy. We’re talking Toxic Avenger foul. And not Toxic Avenger funny, just Toxic Avenger stink.
Well, of course. But I thought that might be rude of me to mention it.
That’s because you’re a refined gentlemen and a true humanitarian who studied the art of civility under the tutelage of my bitch of an aunt Miss Cunt Face Manners.
Hahahahahahahahaha!!!!!
She taught me every fucking thing I know!
Hahahahaha!!!!
(Fucking awesome. My four-year-old just came in talk to me. He says, “Dad, are you laughing?” I kind of nod and keep laughing and he laughs a bit with me because something must be funny.
This goes on for a couple of minutes. And then: “Dad, that’s enough.” And he wanders off.
*whew*)
Whew is right!
Still, if there had been a problem we would have known who to blame…
My Uncle Clive Fucking Cussler.
It may be time to drag FJ into this, along with the multiple volumes of comment thread rules, all badly written and hastily compiled.
I believe there was a time limit mentioned, but I think the use of the word “fucking” allows for some leeway in determining Riff Status (whom I believe is the main character in Clive Fucking Cussler’s NUMA Files offshoot).
We also have some other possible tiebreakers:
Before winter solstice.
Infield fly rule in effect.
Drinks 2-for-1 until midnight (CST).
Special rules for 2-player-only riffs.
Dispensation for condom breakage.
+1:30 to time limit for each non-usage of Fad Gadget, merkin or nautical/homoerotic terms.
Please advise.
I thought Riff Status was an ex-porn star that Clive shacked up with after Mrs. Cussler’s tragic fourth condom accident.
You know, the condom accident involving Fad Gadget’s nautical merkin, the six tins of beans, the asphyxiation trampoline, and Dirk’s best friend, Tidbit Withrow III.
I’d like to suggest that tie breakers be decided by bets placed on a caged wrestling match between my Uncle Clive Fucking Cussler and my sweet, well mannered aunt with the unfortunate vagina face.
A thought.
I’m sure your input will be carefully considered and quickly discarded.
Much like the overpriced and underperforming…
Wait a minute…
Is this someone’s blog?
Yes, it belongs to my uncle Clive.
(My Uncle Clive Fucking Cussler, I’ll have you know.)
Well. He certainly won’t appreciate this.
Much like Mrs. Cussler’s parents didn’t appreciate Clive breaking in both their daughter and some overpriced but underperforming condoms in the back of Hansom cab that routinely toured their neighborhood.
I believe their exact words were “Get a room!”
To which he responded: “Forget it, I’m dirking this pitt right here.”
bschooled
Your Social Experiment in “The Business of Giant Floral Patterned Scrotal Tissue Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle” is, of course, inspirational.
And while a mere plebiscite like me is nowhere near capable to offer anything in the way of true insight, let alone add any empirical data on this most worthy subject, I would suggest that you consider adding the subtopic of “groin mauling” to this most important social experiment of yours.
The direct correlations between “Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle” and “Groin Mauling” may not seem obvious at first, but upon closer inspection (Oh, Matron!) the results are fascinating.
The psychological phenomena known as “Groinmaulophobia (from the Latin bubonadenitis bubonoalgia bubonoclasis wazupbub? ) can result in not only a severe castration complex (not to mention the apartment complex, so I won’t…) but in the manifestation of “Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle.”
No one is sure why. But now we have you to clear up this age old mystery.
God bless you, young b!
Go forth and save those poor unfortunates suffering from “Scrotal Tissue Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle”
Remember: The groin maul is the key that can unlock this secret!
Hurry, please, while there’s still time!
It’s as good as done!
I honestly believe that “Scrotal Tissue Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle Resulting from a Groinmauling Oh Matron” may be my most ground-breaking, back-breaking, breaking-bread experiment to date.
And while I’m on the topic of castration complex, I see no reason why I shouldn’t bring up the resulting apartment complex…along with inferiority complex, complex numbers and the complex nature of the uv and visible fluorescence of colloidal zno nanoparticles.
Let’s face it, Alan, I’m on a roll and there’s no stopping me. Just like the entire Rugby Team in high-school used to say–“Bschooled is the kind of girl who Goes Hard or Goes Home!!!”
“Go Trojans!”
Hahaha!
I’ll say it again. You’re an inspiration to us all.
Gotta love the “Fighting Trojans Team Song”
Trojans, go!
Fight, fight, fight!
Thrust and grind!
And do it all night!
Trojans, go!
Fro, heave ho!
Give it to ‘em hard
And down you go!
Trojans, go!
Screw, screw, screw!
Nerk, schtoop, boink
It’s what you do!
How did you know our team che…?
Oh God, Alan, please tell me you didn’t play for Beaverton’s Rugby team.
No wonder I I thought your floppy ears and elongated nose looked familiar…
I was the team mascot!
Remember the year those ruffians from the Pussyville Rugby team stole me?
…Ah, memories of wacky hi-jinks!
Oh right!!! The mascot!!
Ahh..those Pussyvilles…what a bunch of crazy merkins they were. I still remember their cheer-
We’re the Pussyvilles and our hi-jinx are wacky,
We steal other mascots and our outfits are tacky
We had gender re-assignment so you’d better believer,
If the guys try to can us we yell “Leave it, it’s Beaver!
Ahhh…good times.
“They were kinder and gentler times, those beaver and pussy days. Men kept their latent homosexuality in the closet and their wives at home – where they both belonged. Woman had beehives and neurosis – but only talked about their beehives. And kids were there to be beaten.”
Ward Cleaver in an interview with an obviously drunk Uncle Charley O’Casey, 1974.
How can you tell an old rugby player?
His balls are shrunken from ‘trying to hard’.
:)
And old golfers never die they just lose their balls.
Aw, I’ll kind of miss Clark. Sort of. Well, not really.
I’d steer clear of Mildred, Alan. I think she’s got a wee touch of the crazy.
He wasn’t a great boss. But he kept to himself.
Oh, and he did vomit on Otto.
You’ve got to semi-admire a man who does that.
PS: Oh yeah on the “wee touch of the crazy.”
And nicely said.
:)
Why, thank you! Ha.
Clark does get points for vomiting on Otto. That’s pretty cool.
If you’re going to vomit on a person (and I don’t endorse it) Otto is the
bestonly candidate.:)
So Clark’s gone? For good?
He’s gone.
And I have a feeling the ill winds are blowing in a portentous new monster…
Hah. I’ve always wanted to say that!
And now I have. Twice!
;)
Reinstatement & free pencils, man she’s got it good
Yup, everthing’s coming up Typhoid!
Clark’s been sent to Florida?
I was going to give him a mention in my blog this week :-(
Still will. Too late to work in Carlita.
BTW, fwiw, Florida currently has a plague of pythons(sic!)
which is out of control. True news!
Sorry, Stu!
I wish I’d known.
That’s just like Clark to mess up everyone else’s plans and then dance off into the sunset to Florida.
If there’s any justice, he’ll end up inside one of those pythons.
:)
Pythons & Mildred maybe have a crush on him?
Hah! Woot!
:lol:
I got Floral Patterned Scrotal Tissue Elephantiasis of Inflammatory Etiology on the Left Testicle from a toilet seat once in Laos and the bitch was it was the only toilet seat in 40 miles of my locale.
This kind of poor luck must run in my family—Uncle Gary was hit by a meteorite while hiking across the Black Rock Desert in northern Nevada—see what I mean.
Not to mention your poor Uncle Shamus who was hit by a meteorite while sitting on an infectious toilet seat in Laos.
Still, it’s a fun story, and he tells it well at cocktail parties.
The parties end early, though, as everyone rushes out to use any other restroom than the one Uncle Shamus used.
Eveyone except my Uncle Clive Fucking Cussler, that is.
No. That uncle of yours just couldn’t get enough of those exotic sexually transmitted diseases.
He’d regale us with tales of pumping his way through an entire frigate full of friggin’ hookers with nary a pause for breath or condom-rigging, leaving them satiated, spent and begging for more, perhaps later when they weren’t so satiated and spent.
He said, “They liked it so much it wasn’t just a case of the clap. It was a fucking round of applause.”
And we all politely excused ourself to run home and vomit and shower and vomit and shower again and wonder if that stain was always on the couch and isn’t the dog walking a little funny?
Plus, his ass sucks canal water.
And not just regular canal water, but fetid, e-coli festering, stink plagued ass canal water.
Good lord! I thought we had agreed not to talk about that. At least not around “non-Cusslers.”
You’re right, of course.
Where are my manners?
I, like you, should have listened to the lessons taught to me by my aunt.
She really is a fine woman.
Shame about her face.
You know…
HAHAHAHAHA!!!
You’re killing me!
(My son keeps checking in on me and my apparently endless laughing. He’s beginning to look concerned, which is not the look you want to see when you’re trying to be a parent and role model…)
I’m in stitches here too!
Non-Clussler role models…no such thing.
Clive, sign my boob!!!
And Dirk can sign the other!
Stealing pencils is a bit silly really, isn’t it?
What would you do with them?
Nobody uses pencils!
Or staplers?
What need could you possibly have for stealing two dozen staplers????!!!
If you’re gonna steal, at least think it through. Money, gold, clothing, food – things of use.
I suspect Typhoid’s pencil and stapler thievery has more to do with her assorting some kind of dominance then anything else. Or, she may have some kind of weirdness kinky thing going on with pencils and staplers… If so, I’d prefer not to know about that.
;)
She doesn’t need food,
she’s already on a staple diet ;-)
:lol:
The capper!
Nice one, Stu!!!
She should’ve gotten at least ONE testicle. I mean if you’re not going to award her $200 million…. at least provide some token of peace. Clark’s left testicle would’ve done nicely.
Hah! Yes, the left testicle as a small but symbolic gesture.
I’m not sure about the ‘sym’ bit, but ‘it’s certainly a ‘bolic’.
Hahaha!
Ah, NobblySan!
Got to love the rollicking bollocks wordplay!
Oh, cruel, cruel world. Clark is off to Florida and the great debate over who stole the pencils is still up in the air. You should set up a pencil sting operation. If she stole them once, she will return to her vice. You’ve heard the term, “Being caught with your hand in the cookie jar.” Well, she will, “Be caught with her hands in the pencil box.”
Ah, a pencil sting!
I like it.
Hope you enjoyed the floral patterned scrotal tissue, tag, Eric. I owe it all to you, dude.
;)
Well he won’t be smiling during hurricane season. Mildred is right in her “joke”, plus anyone that was in grave pain like that is entitled to steal office supplies. It’s an unwritten rule for 300 years now!
:)
Yes, the hurricanes and the alligators make for quite a combo. Plus right now there is a bit of a python epidemic going on as well. Looks like Florida is getting ready for Clark!
300 years, huh? ;)
Nice to see you, sensico!
Brit-thickies like me may find the following helpful to understand the Cussler cudgeling above;
http://www.bizjournals.com/losangeles/stories/2009/07/27/daily20.html
dave
Yeah, he’s a litigous little bastard.
Clive and Alan and I go back a bit.
Back in May, Fundamental Jelly did some posts featuring photos of bloggers’ workplaces. I besmirched the reputation of a perfectly innocent stack of paper by insinuating that it was Alan’s unfinished draft for Clive Cussler’s Novel-Writing Sweatshoppe.
Fast-forward to June: Alan stops in at my place to question my fact-checking on a particular post. I mention to him that I had received (unsolicited) advice from Clive Cussler re: research. To wit: “Boats float. Except when they don’t.” He further went on to explain that most of the facts in his numerous novels are made up and no one picking up this book to read on a plane is going to know or care.
Fast-forward again: My most recent post (link below) about a Clive Cussler interview gone horribly wrong. Key elements included: questionable research, Clive going C.F. Kane and yelling, “I don’t have to take this shit! I’m Clive fucking Cussler!” Oh. And a young Harry Potter fan.
http://capitalistliontamer.wordpress.com/2009/07/22/exclusive-clive-cussler-interview/
From this point on, it was just some shameless extrapolation and excessive swearing. My main issues with the man?
1. He writes himself into his novels as himself, Clive Fucking Cussler. Cameos handled with all the subtlety of Steven King’s movie appearances.
2. It appears he’ll rubber-stamp CLIVE CUSSLER across the front of any book with a boat on the cover.
Apologies in arrears to fans of Clive Fucking Cussler, Alan Fucking Truitt’s uncle and man of the hour.
That should hopefully clear things up. It certainly won’t make them any funnier.
Informationally yours,
C Fucking LT
Right oh, got it now…
The sweet irony was that the innocent stack of paper that was besmirched was nothing but blank sheets — which make for far more fascinating reading than anything my Uncle Clive has ever produced.
Far more fascinating than reading the future of Cousin Dirk (Uncle Clive’s accidental production) using the bumps on his head.
Hahaha…
The fun part there is actually putting the bumps on Dirk’s head.
For best results, I suggest a ball-peen hammer. Although a melon baller can also effective — if you prefer taking the scenic route.
Pardon my brief delay, I was out playing stump the band with Old Man Mills.
And as he would probably say (in a rye-slurred voice): “The only route we ever took was the scenic route. And for damn good reason. It took longer and sucked more enjoyment out of our lives.”
Hahaha…
And of course, he would be right — because if I had ever disagreed with Old Don Mills, he’d have called me a heaten sinner possessed by the devil, then jammed a crucifix down my throat and cleansed me of my unholy sass mouth until I saw the wisdom of his ways.
“But doesn’t our aunt’s face resemble a vagaarraagghhaghhuugh?”
I couldn’t have said it better if I tried!
Jussa minute, Jussa minute!
If’n I remember proply, it was Carlita’s groin wot got morled. So how come(sic!) Mildread is gerrin ‘er groove bak?
Hahahahaha!
Um, huh, er, mmm… Lets’ go with this… Mildred’s job is the only groove she’s had in a long time.
She got her job back — she got her groove back!
;)
Alan,Who on your earth craves for this type of writing.Times it drops loud murky of Richard Brautigan.On the way about a way of thinking to read by you.Its like a college kid,not to bright ,not really smart.But he misses his three meals one day.Heats up his Juvey hot pocket and attacks his typewriter.The face of your work is like when your mouth is full of hot pocket zing.You are tapping your foot,plinking your glass of milk with a fork in a unbeat quickness.Then hunkering back on your little story spread.It’s more like the hardship of alans father here.A swift good guy blurt of Im so good,then announces all the club member names whole heartdly,joking,gee,following Alans little bouncing ball of cuteness.
Many, many thanks Georgie,
I honestly have no idea what on earth you are talking about. But I do like the expression “pocket zing.”
So, you win the award (can you hand me that award, Johnny?) for most incoherent and baffling comment ever. That’s ten lines of indecipherable stream of consciousness you’ve managed to string together. It’s either poorly spelled and badly punctuated poetic genius or some truly wayward – and possibly booze induced – and thoroughly mangled gobbledegook. The jury is still out.
My hope is that English isn’t your first language.
Anyhoo. I’m on vacation. What’s your excuse, my friend?
Is that you, Clive F. Cussler? The writing style seems to be a bit more coherent than usual….
Perhaps it’s Dirk. He may be a half-wit but he can operate a thesaurus. He can’t operate a keyboard, but he can read the hell out of that thesaurus.
Of course, it could be that bitter old fuck John Updike. He hates prolific writing that fails to mention licking someone’s vagina every 300 words or so.
Tell us who you really are, Georgie. I can guess all night.