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Thread: The Random Pointless Observations about Things You Did Today Thread

  1. #101
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    Well, some warmer weather and rain cleared things up.

    Unfortunately, I was stuck outside for the two and a half hours when it was freezing rain, gentle snowflakes, and a few hardened ice particulates. I didn't know in advance that was to be my role today, for if I had, I would have brought my raincoat and umbrella in from the parking lot.

    But, there was another guy out there as well, so I just decided to man up and not complain.

    I: WTF is wrong with these private "Flex" drivers? They get paid, literally, to run errands for me. And some septuagenarian actually questions what I tell her to do? Just do it, lady. I don't have the time or inclination to talk you down from whatever bad brown acid you ate, you crazy cunt.

    II: Just because road conditions are a bit more favorable, if you ride my ass on the highway when I'm going home, not only do I enjoy brake-checking you for about three-miles, but when I followed you home, I think you should be very frightened. Do not fuck with me. I will not murder you, but I will take as few minutes of my time as is necessary to make you believe you are the prey of a demented psychopath.

    III: "You need to find yourself a woman!" —"Yeah, well, maybe a pet. I shouldn't have said that..." "Well, a pet can't do everything for you a woman can." —"Well, ..." All good-natured conversation.

    IV: It really is true that pretty intense sweating in an environment with humidity potential sort of makes you smell of shit. I showered this morning, with soap, and wore clean clothes, but it's an upsetting phenomenon, I find. ETAThat's meant to be an analogy between electrical potential and humidity potential — I think it's true, at least from what I experienced today, but it might not be the right analogy. HOWEVER, there is a reason the USN has these things called "poopie suits."
    Last edited by Jizzelbin; 11 Feb 2019 at 10:25 PM.

  2. #102
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    —"Well there has to be an order."
    —"No, [unspoken: you're a half-hour early to do my company's errands], just find a place where you're comfortable being parked."
    —"What's the order?"
    —"There isn't any real order, just wherever you feel comfortable waiting a bit."
    —"Yes, but what's the order!"
    —"There isn't any order."
    —"But there has to be an order."
    —"I know. Just go over there or go over there and talk to somebody inside. [There's no way she'd be admitted inside the warehouse without safety gear, and there's no entrance for errand-people on foot.]"

    One of two people today who seemed to think there's some "order" for when they show up early to run my errands.

    No. There isn't. You fucked up and got here early. Good for you.

    Just sit in the fucking parking lot until I radio in that I want you.

    Or fucking deliver pizzas instead. We don't want your shit — there are plenty of good drivers who aren't going to get "accidentally" have a bad experience inside the warehouse.

    Really.

    You're delivering a pizza.

    Be glad I let you do that much, you wormy little piece of shit.

  3. #103
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    They call me Mister Tibbs.

    I'm not a fucking fry cook or hamburger-flipper.

    What the hell planet does some errand-boy come from flipping me shit?

    This is not a customer-service job, and you work for me.

    So do what I say, and none of that sass-mouth.

  4. #104
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    I am really having a hard time getting over having to treat these errand-runners as "customers."

    They're not my customers, and, in fact, I'm doing them a favor by allowing them into my warehouse. Don't like it? Go deliver pizzas, or whatever makes you feel like you're not on death's door. Or whatever the hell reason they do an errand-boy's job at the age of eighty or whatever. Too bad you sucked at life: my portfolio has been growing since I was twenty years old, and my life hasn't suffered by saving up for retirement. Younger people never give me any static — they're glad to get a small paycheck, same as me, and seem to be adequately socialized.

    That said, I'm really good at people.

    95+% of them.

    I don't understand the small number of people who somehow think they are not errand delivery people.

    And, trust me, there is no "old money" in PDX. The closest there is, I know them all by name, and they know me.

    So you got a nice car. Good for you. Just get in line and deliver what I tell you to. Yuppie fucking assholes, good luck with your McDonald's franchise, or your failing (or prosperous, relatively) sole-proprietor shop. Bunch of nitwits.

    And, no, some peanut-head cheese-eating white bitch with lamentable property holdings and a lack of pedigree, education. Sorry, you dried up old cunt, you just don't belong in the world.

    Time to die.

  5. #105
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    Goddammit. Fucking son of a bitch.

    I thought Carhartt work pants were supposed to fucking last. Doing some grunt detail, fucking crotch split as I was fisting a loose board from one of those crappy wooden pallets.

    Not too bad, I can still wear them, and I have some extras to rotate through the week. But, still.

    But it ALSO annoys me that it seems most of my jockey boxer-briefs have odd holes in them. The usual between-the-thighs/balls holes, but also just random holes in odd places.

    Fucking A. I don't want to drive out to fucking WalMart or Target just to get some more shorts. BUT, it is worth it, I suppose, to not have to fish around in the "clean clothes" pile to find undergarments every fucking morning.

    What they need is something like those old "Tuffskins" pants for adults: clearly, my usual garments are not lasting like I want them to. Bitches be sewing the clothes wrong. That's all there is to it.

  6. #106
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    Quote Originally posted by Jizzelbin View post
    III: "You need to find yourself a woman!" —"Yeah, well, maybe a pet. I shouldn't have said that..." "Well, a pet can't do everything for you a woman can." —"Well, ..." All good-natured conversation.
    Oh, this one. Friendly gal. Process of divorcing. Has kids. Is kind of ... not my type... but I like her as a work-buddy and as a person, and is the only other practicing Catholic I know on this shift (well, she's about as practicing as I am, given she hasn't mention annulment, but apparently she sends her kids to a parochial school in a different parish; for all I know, she's knee-deep in the whole religion stuff, but probably not).

    I think she might be getting the wrong idea about me.

    I hope I'm wrong.

    Well, I can deal with any "advances" from women who don't interest me — they just use me for my husky body.

  7. #107
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    Nice Marmot, Dude.

    Christ on a motherfucking cross, fucking got half a toe bleeding off stubbing my toe on that idiotic attempt to take a piss and got my toe temporarily stuck in the space heater.

    Fucking A.

    Looks like a goddamned crucifix.

    Fucking A.

    Yeah, well dude, at least I got hydrogen peroxide and some gauze, which is more than my buddies got lying face down in the muck in Viet-Nam.

    Dude.

    fuckers fuck shit.

  8. #108
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    This is not today, but of Ash Wednesday.

    Yeah, I bothered to attend the 0730 service at my parish and get "ashed," and I am not at all ashamed to have washed off the mark when I went to work two hours later that day.

    But, I am proud to say that I got to pass Waregirl as she was ending her shift and I was starting mine. Pretty sure she noticed I had some shit on my forehead.

    I probably saw two hundred people that day, and maybe five seemed to not say, "Hey, you have something on your forehead!"

    Judas priest, I find it barely believable that 99.99% of people don't know what Ash Wednesday is.

    And, yes, while I attend mass every single goddamned week, or appropriately confess, I admit I only do it for more fornication opportunities. Putain de merde ma foi ce n'est qu'un riposte et bien un tentatif bien pâle mais soutenu.

  9. #109
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    Son of bitch.

    Not one but two pairs of the same model of Carhartt "work" pants split in the crotch at about the same time after four months of wear. And I don't mean they just had some slight fraying at the perineum. Full on ass-less chaps, basically. To be cut up and used as rags at home.

    SO, I ordered two pairs of "gussetted" crotch pants. One pair of blue "work" jeans, from Timberland's "PRO" line, and a pair of Wrangler "Riggs" ranger pants.

    They seem fine and all. I even went a size up on the canvas pants, as suggested. The blue jeans I just got my regular 36 waist, 34 length.

    Neither of them can I button.

    BUT, I found the back of my home office chair is wide enough that I can attempt to stretch them out overnight. Still probably have to leave the button undone and wear an untucked shirt (plus belt, natch), but I guess I have until the end of Lent to drop some inches off my waist line.

    I swear I wear 36 waist recently, which isn't all that huge a size.

    But apparently a year of drinking three or four liters of wine every day sort of makes you a fatty.

    I have noticed I've stopped sweating profusely every day at work since quitting drinking wine (not a Lent thing, just a prudent thing), even though I still have a few beers after work some days.

    Carharrt my ass. Bull shit. I really liked those pants too: they fit good, they looked well, and were comfortable.

  10. #110
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    "Taxpayer, I cannot hear you. Taxpayer, we must have a bad reception. Taxpayer, I cannot hear you. I suggest you call back at another time."

    Stupid fucking mobile phones and goddamned fuck shit.

    Second time in a row after waiting on hold to "verify" my identity.

    I bet that's what really set Ted Kaczynski off, not the rape of the natural world.

  11. #111
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    No, nothing yet. Trying to set my sleep to pick up an extra eight hours today by waking up at 0130, then sleep at about 1100 until 2000.

    I think the only reason I like to work is that I get to meet girls. It's like a disco, but I also get paid for it.

    I also found the most ridiculously apropos crotchety olman thread that existed.

    I only found it by accident when I was noticing that I happen to have "The Club" (steering-wheel-locking anti-theft device) and was thinking about getting rid of the mountain of trash in my passenger-side footwell and how it would be good to be able to stop the car, open the door, and pick up the device the next time someone honks their horn when I'm letting a pedestrian cross, as is their right.

    N.B. They have the right, de facto et de jure, except when they don't. In the USA, automobilists do not have any right to occupy any bit of asphalt or macadam, unless they are granted some kind of certificate.

  12. #112
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    Judas priest, "The Who" at Tanglewood July of 1970.

    Holy shit, so, like everybody, I've seen This is Spinal Tap more times than should be allowed.

    This is the shit.

    And Benadryl (house brand) was on sale for $4 USD per 100-ct bottles, so before I take a nap of six hours, I just saved a whole bunch of money [on my sleep aid] ready to start at 2015 this PM.

  13. #113
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    Judas priest, "The Who" at Tanglewood July of 1970.

    Holy shit, so, like everybody, I've seen This is Spinal Tap more times than should be allowed.

    This is the shit.

    And Benadryl (house brand) was on sale for $4 USD per 100-ct bottles, so before I take a nap of six hours, I just saved a whole bunch of money [on my sleep aid] ready to start at 2015 this PM.

  14. #114
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    Well, I tried but I could not. I can't do an impromptu graveyard shift without adequate sleep. I thought I could beat the devil and do 3.5 hours sleep, walk up at 0130, then go for a walk with my middle nephew and his grandmother at 0800, then grab five hours sleep during the day.

    No.

    I did last four hours through the shift, but the sorting shift is not just awful. It is gawdawful. First of all, it's a sausage-fest: while the crew seemed nice and the atmosphere was relaxed, and <gasp!> they actually self-policed the timing of the break after two hours, trusting everybody to get down to business after ten or fifteen minutes (which is nice).

    The work itself is the worst I've ever done, as a job. Remember in Cool Hand Luke when Luke is digging holes in the ground and filling them back in? Exactly the same. Picture a fifteen foot aisle, and you're "in charge of," say, six or seven of those. A Laverne-and-Shirley-style conveyer belt is running constantly and people are picking up boxes and envelopes off the belt and sorting them into the aisles you're working.

    You walk back and forth, maybe fifteen feet, picking up one box at a time, finding the correct bag it goes into, stoop down to scan the often besmirched QR codes to indicate the package is sorted, then go back and grab another one.

    And there's no end in sight. I think 35,000 packages (including envelopes) was tonight's load. But the belt never stops.

    You walk up and down, turn over, bend down, stand up right, walk ten feet, rinse, repeat.

    It's digging ditches, is exactly what that shift is like. Or shoveling shit.

    After four hours I just said "fuck it," but I did the responsible thing and told the shift supervisor that "I just can't stay awake and continue to be safe and accurate. Just as a courtesy, I thought I'd let you know rather than just walk off."

    Honestly, I was dizzy from walking to-and-fro rapidly in circles, every article of clothing I had was soaked with sweat, and I basically was a non-hacker who did not pack the gear necessary to serve in that shift.

    Good crew, had some good mini-conversations to get the feel of the shift, but some things just aren't worth working after midnight for on very little sleep.

    Just getting old, I guess.

    Great workout, though! Four hours of stooping, fetching, stepping, and sweating!

    I'm never going to complain about my comparatively cushy shift again....we even got some new meat to break in! Plus I can wake up at six or seven in the morning instead of trying to be a goddamned Special Ops grunt stressing the limits of endurance.

  15. #115
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    About the "new meat": there's some guy named "Zane." He's OK. Young kid, sort of like me, prefers doing the grunt manual labor, just to stay busy. Natalie. She's about good for me — she won me over when she said "Balls!" as an expletive, and seemed to "get" my little comment which was, "Hey, what are you, Sid Vicious?" I haven't seen Abdullahi in the past week: I tried some of my few bits of Somali with him (I just guessed he was Somali, and I was right), and he taught me a new phrase which I forgot. No, I don't know any Somali, just "what's up?" "thank you!" "yes" and "no."

    I hope he comes back to the shift, though — I like shooting the shit with East Africans, for some reason. They're not what I would call "chilled out" people, as a rule (rather, pretty guarded for good reasons) but me and them seem to get along OK, in general.

    And, Dan got negged from his "Ambassador" position (he's a total neckbeard nerd, but he has a good sense of humor and is competent and straightforward), and I like having somebody in my crew who actually gets shit done so we don't have to be scrambling at the last minute. We work good together. BTW an "Ambassador" is....sort of like one of many sub-supervisors. They don't get paid anymore than us regulars, but .... I don't know. They get a special safety vest. Basically they're just grunts who do the same stuff as anybody else but with a touch more bling and nothing else.

    Yeah, that's the best thing about working with "my" crew — just we all know exactly what to do and automatically cover each other's backs using shorthand, like a nod of the head or so forth.

  16. #116
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    Yep. Nothing like spending about half your paycheck at a bar drinking beer and dealing with your bitch-ass uncle.

    But it's nobody's fault but mine — I was, indeed, the one who called him from the bar after my graveyard shift and, as is my way, was insistent that he join me for a few beers (he lives in downtown, and "my" bar is not far from there, but it might as well be a hundred miles for all the PITA driving through downtown is).

    It wasn't all bad — I picked up some 2mm "B" pencil lead for my clutch pencil at ths art "mega-store" called Blick's, and I insisted Jerry try it out using both the HB and the B lead. He's a pretty good drawer, so that was amusing for a while.

    I don't know what it is about him, but the bartender looked askance a bit abut him after we'd had a few (I mean that literally, just a few beers of PBR).

    But somehow the bartender seemed to take my word for it it was fine — I guess that's what you get after coming to the same place five days a week for over a year and not being a total knob.

    That was an amazing show of trust and faith the bartender put in me — her license woiuld have been in jeopardy if she indeed did overserve some rummies and they ran a schoolbus off the road or whatever.

    So that was nice.

    I sort of bullied/persuaded JJ to come back to my place, only so that I wouldn't have to drive downtown again and could have delayed The Trip until the morning.

    The good: he showed me a little trick on piano for Frankie Laine/Mel Brooks's Blazing Saddles — namely, like, let's see we're in the model key of C and as a preparation for the dominant, you hit a Bb triad (really, I think that's a Vm7 in disguise). Of course we got in a minor little Felix/Oscar bitch-fight after it.

    But I put him in his place a bit by doing the tune in all kinds of weird keys, like C# or whatever. Which are not "weird" keys: The only weird keys for improvising American music IMHO are B major and F#

    And,of course, I get to deal with his whining "Hey Jack, can we go out and get some more beer?"

    My response: "What did I take 90 minutes ago for the express purpose of going to sleep? Benadryl, Steinberg! And did I take my pants off a bit ago? Does it look like I want to go to the grocery store wearing my undershorts?" Just chill, dude.

    Real edgy guy. He's really the very model of a modern man-child. Christ, he can't act like a person!

    And he tried his hand at acting down in Hollywood, so I'm confused why he can't/won't apply some of that technique to interacting with the world.

    More later, I guess. Honestly, I'd rather just forget about the whole thing and be glad I woke up in one piece, but I doin't trust that guy. It's no fun going to sleep with your wallet and other valuables on your nightstand, with the door closed, wondering if this jerk is going to burn the place down.

  17. #117
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    Oh, and we did watch the The Who concert from Tangelwood in 1970. So we got to have some good light chatter about the musicians' abilities as performers/entertainers as well as bickering about the exact chords used.

  18. #118
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    Well, I wouldn't it say it was pointless, but after several hundred yards of e-braking while maintaining speed to back this tail-gating motherfucker off my ass, I did get a wild hair to cram the e-brake HARD, and make an immediate right turn, after checking to clear the intersection of other vehicles and their betters, pedestrians.

    Nicely executed, I would say. Fish-tail, laid a ton of rubber on the asphalt, and yet ended up where I desired.

    My real desire was that the offender would have crashed, and maimed or killed the occupants of his or her vehicle, including any children born of such a creature.

    No, apparently they survived, but IMHO that's too bad.

    It was a pretty sweet turn, though, I made.

  19. #119
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    Well, I've gotten my disgust for that pap they play — this is the fucking archdiocese of Portland, you know, which happens to be my paish church.

    Whatever, the music is shit. It's .... I can't even say.

    People like this George Winston bullshit?

    Fuck them.

    I don't go to mass to sing fucking Vince Guaraldi shit — fucking A. And Vince Guaraldi was an actual musician, not like this shit.

    Yeah, OK "Pop contemporary adult worship."

    Are you shitting me? (A) I don't sing for nobody and (B) IF I sang for somebody, at least it'd be fucking good.

    ON THE GOOD NOTE, I'm liking this new gal on my shift. No, I didnt say "shaft" so stop saying that. She's not that good prima facie, but she could be. Seems smart, quick to have a laugh, and probably would debase herself with me if I gave her some gelt.

    Good enough.

    ETA And don't tell her that I deliberately try to do FBI-style J-turns using the emergency brake to try to eliminate tail-gaters. Or do. I don't care. I'm not even that great at eating pussy — short tongue, don't you know.

    But she doesn't have to know that: IME enthusiasm goes a long way, so to speak.

    All right, so I'm a pig, but just don't tell her that.

    She'll find out on her own.
    Last edited by Jizzelbin; Today at 12:24 AM.

  20. #120
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    Yeah, this counts as an "observation": jeez, OK, fine, lady behind me. Fine. You're a mega-super-ultra Christian. Who happens to be Catholic.

    I don't want to hear your bleating in my ear with your fucking bullshit songs.

    And I'm going to PRETEND I didn't just see you doing the orans (open palms extended outward), which I've seen a number of people do during that one part of mass. That's the celebrant's/priest's job, and I think it's a garish mockery and a huge affectation to think "this is what we can do too!"

    Yeah, I'm sorry, but this isn't some hippie new age mass where you just kind of "do your own thing, man!"

    I don't have a problem with members of a family (I assume the hispanic group in front of me were a family — some younger kids, and probably the papa and maybe an uncle) holding hands during the Pater noster. Or anyone, really. It is, after all, called communion for a reason, and there need not be a biological kinship. I'm just glad no one tried to touch me other than during the sign of peace.

    It's quaint, but if it makes them happy, then it certainly doesn't bother me. It seems pretty common, in fact. It's fine. Whatever makes you happy.

    More the "m'as-tu-vu?"-ism of some of the more "upright" types. That just means the "look-at-me!" type person. Which may not be their motivation, but it is certainly the effect.

    Lack of humility, I would say.

    WHICH, BTW. Fucking stop saying "peace be with you" across many pews? The cathedral was designed for pretty good acoustics: one needn't even raise one's voice, let alone shriek. And, maybe just keep it to yourself if you're not sitting with your "special friends."

    ////

    CONCLUSION. I think I might need to find a different time of mass or commute to a different parish which is a little more subdued and more traditional. No, it's true I made the effort to learn the rosary and the spoken parts of mass in Latin, but I certainly don't speak the words in more than a very subdued voice, because in my view, that would be contrary to the purpose of the celebration of the mass and the participation in the communion of the faithful.

    I think the next nearest church with regular masses is St. Cecilia's in a nearby town, which has a largely Spanish-speaking flock, and, somehow, I think I would be less annoyed by people there. No, I don't speak Spanish, but the language is not that important. Anyway, there's always the universal language of the RCC, which suits me fine.

    Although, I was reading from Luke today in the Vulgate and I admit I had only about 60% comprehension of the words. So, use it or lose it, I guess.
    Last edited by Jizzelbin; Today at 10:39 AM.

  21. #121
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    Oh, here's a sort of witty explanation of why I'm right and these other people are wrong and should be ashamed of their abuses and liberties taken during the concelebration of the mass.

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