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Tag: Assholes Bitches Jerks and/or Douchebags

RAGE ACTIVATED

RAGE ACTIVATED

Let me tell you how my day has been going.

I got a call transferred to me from a guy in Sales back at my old job. It’s a sales person from that group’s parent company. Let’s call them Schmenry Shmine. This call was not for anything tech-related… this is a guy who’s pushing gauze, gloves, toothpaste, and all of the other common-use stuff in a dental office.

He wants me to give him the part number to and put in an order for a camera hanger.

Guess what? I AM IN TECHNICAL SUPPORT. I don’t sell things, I don’t have part numbers, I don’t even think the part he wants is even sold seperately. I tell him that I don’t have access to this, but I would be more than happy to get him to a regional sales manager who has a part list.

He says “I don’t want a goddamn manager, I want to be put on the line with someone who can give me that and sell it to me immediately. Come on, let’s do it for Team Schei– er… Schmein.”

News Flash:
I don’t work for Schmenry Shmine.

Schmenry Shmine is the company that repeatedly gave me the shaft for the last two years I was with them, continually pulling asshole move on me after asshole move.

I have no loyalty for Team Shmine.

In fact, I would dance a freaking JIG if Schmenry Shmine and all of their subsidiaries were forced out of business and the CEO, Board of Directors, and in fact everyone down the chain to the guy who used to run the Support team and dissolved the Quality Control department were left penniless giving handjobs for whiskey money.

THAT is how I feel about Team Shmine.

He got ten minutes in the Penalty Box and a phone number for his zone manager. DAMN do I hate people.

Gaaaak.

Gaaaak.

To whomever shat on the floor in the first stall of the first floor men’s room at Northwinds Pointe, the building where I work…

If I find out who you are and it’s still there…

I’m rubbing your nose in it and then hitting you repeatedly in the back of the head not with a newspaper, but my fist.

This is not Kindergarten. You should have learned proper control of your bowels by now, and above all, you should have had the common courtesy to clean up after yourself.

Cocksmith.

That is all.

(I wish I was joking about this.)

Getting Back

Getting Back

OK, I’m doing a bit better now.

I did the whole wallowing in self-pity, this is all my fault, I’m such a fuck-up sad bastard thing for a couple of days. Went home, fell asleep, woke up, ate something, brushed my teeth, fell back asleep thing on Monday and most of Tuesday. I maintained radio silence (obviously, for those of you who tried to talk to me only to get no response) just because I didn’t want to have to explain everything. I still think that getting stood up was partially my fault, but I’m doing better with that. Regardless… I’ve thrown away her number. If she was that appalled at my nervous laughter or something came up, she could have at least had the common courtesy to respond to my call and say WHY she wasn’t showing, rather than just not answer or give an explanation. I just see it as a sign that I’m not supposed to date anyone and need to, as I had preached so strongly before, focus on myself.

But anyway.

Lynnie and Bobby dragged my ass to Trivia Night, where Team I Care Not took first place against our nemeses, Nuclear Waste, I Love Beer… BEER!, and We Are Cracked (the guys who are there every week with us) and the others… Jackyard Backoffs, Short Skirts and Chapped Lips, Cunning Linguists, and a lot of other terrible double entendres. Bar Cash for us, and I felt useful ’cause I helped answer a lot of questions that no one in their right mind should know (but I do anyway). Plus: I had Newcastle Brown, and Newcastle Brown cures all ills. I also had ice cream and blissfully ignored the fact that I’m somewhat intolerant of lactose and paid for it later, but damn it, I needed some sugar.

I still should’ve known the answer to “What’s the title of the song that contains the line ” Yeah, your alias says you’re Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the United Federation of Planets” (The answer: “Banditos”, by The Refreshments).

So yeah. In a nutshell:

I deserved an explanation and didn’t get one, thus all bets are off, even if her reason was me.

Not dating, time to renew my focus on myself.

Trivia night is awesome.

Newcastle Brown is doubleplus awesome.

A Shitty Situation. (Heh.)

A Shitty Situation. (Heh.)

First… Happy Halloween, everyone. May you get candy or tail, whichever one you want more.

Secondly… I hate people. Here at work, we have an annual tradition of letting employees take their kids trick-or-treat. This I have no problem with. What I do have a problem with is the lady who was changing her kid’s diaper… in the break room. But not only was she doing this, but she was doing it on one of the break room tables… without the aid of a cloth, liner, or even a bit of newspaper to put the kid on. But no, she topped that by throwing the kid’s shitty diaper into one of the break room garbages… thus guaranteeing that the poor saps downstairs will be inhaling that lovely fragrance known as eau de couches de bebe emmerdant (Probably not translated properly. Don’t care.)

That lady needs to Delta in a Foxtrot.

Aww… nutsack.

Aww… nutsack.

You can always count on a meeting with your boss’s boss to turn a decent day into a spectacularly shitty one.

Kri5is… I think I might need to take your advice. It sounds like a long talk with The Captain may be in order.

Yes, I am alive.

Yes, I am alive.

Y’know those times when you really don’t feel like writing anything?

Yeah, I was going through one of those.

But now I’m not.

The Skin Thing mentioned in the last post so very, very long ago is going away… after having seen a second dermatologist. It turns out that I’m afflicted with what is known as Guttate Psoriasis (warning, pictures at the bottom of the page). It still isn’t cured, and it’s been a helluvalot longer than “a few weeks”. I’m going to another appointment with my Dermatologist soon.

And to Dr. Brent Goodsell, who misdiagnosed/mistreated me when I first went in, I offer a hearty…

FUCK YOU.

If he would’ve diagnosed me right the first time, I wouldn’t have had to go through the bloody sheets/ruined clothes syndrome (the sheets, since thrown away, shall now and forever be referred to as “The Shroud of Orem”), itchy hell, and EXTREME amounts of emotional trauma (which I’m STILL not through, mind you).

But enough about that. I have successfully completed my move to American Fork, and have taken up residence in my grandpa’s family room. It’s 70’s-tacular! I’ve got all of the essentials…

  • Wood paneling on the walls
  • Hideous Shag Carpet
  • A fireplace
  • An extremely 70’s looking clock that has been down here as long as I can remember

Sadly, the velvet matador painting from Mexico is gone… somewhere.

I also have two of the decorations from our old front room, given to me by my non-single roommates… a motorized light ball (Also known as “The Mood”) and a neon “Open” sign (which needs to be plugged in). I’m settled in, and it’s very close to work, so… bonus.

School-wise, I am… how should I put this… hating my Ethics and Values class. It’s boring. It’s a prerequisite. I hate the fact that I have to pay for it.

Psychology is a lot more fun. Rather than learning from our book, we’re instead taking information from “Man’s Search For Meaning”, and photocopies. That’s a hundred dollars that I don’t have to spend right there. Our teacher’s an amusing guy, and highly intelligent.

Finally… math. Ahh, math. I still have to get cracking on it, as I had to take the web-based Math 950… but I’ve got a few people who have offered me assistance, and always have the Math Tutoring Center at the school to fall back on. I’m thinking that I might just go up there on Tuesdays as though I had class anyway and work on stuff there.

So, yes. That’s me. I’m trying not to post as much melodramatic shit as I used to in here, but there’ll probably be some more. Just warnin’ ya.

Late-Night Bitching

Late-Night Bitching

Do you know how unsettling it is to wake up and notice that the sheets (and your back) are covered in blood?

Or your pillows?

Or your pants when you wash them?

Or, in fact, ANYTHING THAT YOUR SKIN COMES INTO CONTACT WITH FOR A PROLONGED PERIOD OF TIME?

The skin whatever isn’t healing. In fact, it’s getting worse. It’s killing my self-confidence. I look like a damned lizard. Or a leper. Or something horrible, at any rate. Dead skin flies from my body like a foul snow. Shaving is hell. The mere act of moving opens up the dried-out places. And the Dermatologist has no idea what it is or what’s causing it.

I have an appointment next week, but I’m seriously considering going to see another one– maybe one that will do more than “that looks bad” and inject me with steroids.

I just don’t want to itch anymore. I want to look normal. I don’t want it to hurt and crack my skin open when I so much as move my neck or walk. Is that too much to ask?

But, is that the only shitty thing that I’m suffering lately? Hells no. The Powers that Be have determined that moving me upstairs– back to, approximately, where I used to sit– is going to drastically boost my productivity. I’m going to be sitting right next to my boss. So she can lean over and ask me about issues that I know exactly fuck-all about and demand answers from me anyway.

The mere fact that they said that it was to “improve my productivity” is a slap to my face. Every time I’ve asked any of the higher-ups how I was doing and what I could improve on, I was reassured that I was doing “fine” and that I had absolutely nothing to worry about. Obviously, if you’ve got to move me… there’s a problem. Why wasn’t it addressed earlier? Why wasn’t I given the opportunity to better myself? I just felt hurt as I moved my crap into the new cube.

The other people in my department (who I consider friends… even if sometimes things they do or how they act can be aggravating at times) now can only communicate with me about issues with our offices that move onto the developers via E-mail or telephone. The elimination of face-to-face contact is one of our biggest problems as it is… E-mail can be ignored, phone calls blown off, and all of them misinterpreted. When I have a problem and I can talk to someone about it face-to-face, it demands immediate action, or at least some kind of response. There’s just… contact there.

And now the Managerial Drones are removing it. Removing me from my friends… who, despite how shitty I feel, at least reassure me with their mere presence. Try to help me. That sort of thing. And I do my best to do the same to them.

I try to do my best to do what’s good for the company. Try to make it better. Try to help in whatever way I can.

They can go to hell now. I’m going to do the Peter Gibbons-working-at-Initech thing… I’ll work just hard enough to keep myself from getting yelled at or fired. I’ve got no motivation to go the extra mile.

Screw them.