The bowl, not the tank.

The mere fact that they call that shit pizza should be a felony. After I got back from Vietnam there was no fucking way I was going in a cubicle. I had to be out and about. Oh it’s a girl’s night out all right, I’ve even got the hot chocolate going. You know, that’s right; pastrami is what I miss the most. The guy was 24 and he was scared, asked us what was going on, and I couldn’t tell him he was dying.

I believe it was very safe! It was controlled insanity!

She’s kind of my manager, or at least the mother hen there, and she told me that the other gal was upset at me for the underwear comments. It was the seventies, and you could see the outline of the disco biscuit against the polyester pants on the asses of half the guys in the bar. No, I can’t address the outage nor can I give you an ETA because no one has provided me with an escalation path, a contact, or a procedure. We had a great time except for the extremely loud Jack Johnson imitator.

It was a car wash, but everyone who worked there was an ex con, and two people got killed on the job in the two months he was there. I’m not going to get my ass shot off for an artificial bugle sound. Let me tell you that’s the best thing I heard all day, that you said he was “soft”.

One of my new dealbreakers is seeing someone in a chicken suit during the interview.

3 thoughts on “The bowl, not the tank.

      1. Re: I don’t think you had arrived in time for:
        was wandering around the party the other night with a log of cookie dough offering it to people. I suggested to one woman that she let him squeeze his tube of pleasure until it filled her bowl before I remembered that it was all the churchy people. Fortunately it was the churchy people who don’t mind that kind of thing.


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