Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Body Function Fail
Lately my jaw has been going lazy on me when i eat. I'll be mid-chew, and my jaw muscles start getting all kinds of tired, and then finishing the bite becomes this major undertaking. Every chomp stretches out in time like i started eating in slow-motion, taking forever to complete one mastication cycle and move on to the next. I reach up and massage the flagging mandible like a boxing coach rubbing down his prize fighter. I even kind of project a mental pep talk to it: 'Come on, you can do this! You can take that bite of tuna! That shit's practically already chewed for you, quit being such a pussy!' I kind of start bobbing my head a bit, like involving my neck is somehow gonna make the job easier, but it doesn't. It just makes my neck tired too.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Box
Jim and i went to see The Box last night. I really liked it, he just thought it was okay, but we agreed it stirred up some interesting thought.
For those who don't know the premise of the movie, a creepy man shows up on a couple's doorstep with a red button in a box. It looks like this:
He gives them 24 hours to decide if they're going to push the button; if they do, they'll receive a million dollars in cash, but someone they don't know somewhere in the world will die. (I'm not going to spoil the movie, don't worry.)
The premise itself is what intrigues me the most. Think about it: the guy shows up, gives you the wealth-creating-button-o-death, then departs leaving you to stare at it for 24 hours and make your decision. Initially, you'd scoff at it- it's a joke. No WAY this could be for real. At some point, the creepiness of the guy convinces you that this is totally for real. You figure (correctly) that a guy who looks like this doesn't fuck around:
Yes, that's a chunk missing out of the side of his face.
Then you start to rationalize: the money could pay off so many bills, send your child to college, help family members in need. You could do a LOT of good with this money. And it isn't like you KNOW the person who's going to die, right? They're nothing to you. It's probably an old person, or a person in a diseased state. You know, someone who's going to die anyway. Maybe it would even be doing them a kindness.
Do you believe in karma? Could you do it? Could you enjoy the money? Could you live with the knowledge that you just condemned someone's child, mother, brother, husband to die? I could'nt.
For those who don't know the premise of the movie, a creepy man shows up on a couple's doorstep with a red button in a box. It looks like this:
He gives them 24 hours to decide if they're going to push the button; if they do, they'll receive a million dollars in cash, but someone they don't know somewhere in the world will die. (I'm not going to spoil the movie, don't worry.)
The premise itself is what intrigues me the most. Think about it: the guy shows up, gives you the wealth-creating-button-o-death, then departs leaving you to stare at it for 24 hours and make your decision. Initially, you'd scoff at it- it's a joke. No WAY this could be for real. At some point, the creepiness of the guy convinces you that this is totally for real. You figure (correctly) that a guy who looks like this doesn't fuck around:
Yes, that's a chunk missing out of the side of his face.
Then you start to rationalize: the money could pay off so many bills, send your child to college, help family members in need. You could do a LOT of good with this money. And it isn't like you KNOW the person who's going to die, right? They're nothing to you. It's probably an old person, or a person in a diseased state. You know, someone who's going to die anyway. Maybe it would even be doing them a kindness.
Do you believe in karma? Could you do it? Could you enjoy the money? Could you live with the knowledge that you just condemned someone's child, mother, brother, husband to die? I could'nt.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Empty Tub
"You've grown awfully lazy recently," he observed coolly.
She glared resentfully up at him from behind her mask of impassiveness. He knew it was her distaste for repetition that stayed her tongue, not laziness, but he was intentionally provoking her. He longed for her to get up and scream at him; to slap him, or to laugh or cry. Even a sneer. Any reaction at all was better than this stony aloofness.
What he didn't know was the nameless, faceless horror that oppressed her dreams whenever she drifted off to sleep. She would try to scream herself awake, but fear paralyzed her as the blackness crept into her opened mouth and down her throat, choking her. It pressed against the inside of her chest from her lungs and sat on the outside of it, crushing her and eating her simultaneously. It had finally driven her early from their bed. She didn't tell him. She was afraid if she tried, the darkness would pour from her mouth instead of words, and then they'd both perish. It was better this way.
Instead, she said, "You're the one who interrupted my bath asking for a cup of tea. If you want me to make it, then you'll bring me the kettle." She said it slowly, like an adult trying to instruct a slow child, dangling the empty cup from her little finger to emphasize her point. He didn't move for a few moments, staring down at her, trying to rip the truth from her empty face.
"Say it," she ordered tonelessly.
He remained silent. The accusation was on the tip of his brain, aching to burst its way out, but he couldn't bring himself to commit to that final act that would be the destruction of them. If he verbalized what he woke up condemning her for. . .
"Say it, or get the fuck out of my face."
Burning love warred with smoldering hate across the battlefield of his countenance; twins turned against one another, neither stronger than the other. Neither capable of defeating the other. He wanted her to care that she was hurting him. Her apathetic face mocked his pain-stricken face, he felt. He turned abruptly from her, leaving her in her empty tub.
She wondered fleetingly if he would actually bring the kettle, and whether she should have asked for the leaves as well. She knew he'd be angry when she sent him back, but she couldn't find the strength to care. She pushed him easily out of her mind to continue staring at the faucet. She wanted to turn it on, she was cold. But she was afraid the darkness would flood out of it instead of water. She shivered.
She glared resentfully up at him from behind her mask of impassiveness. He knew it was her distaste for repetition that stayed her tongue, not laziness, but he was intentionally provoking her. He longed for her to get up and scream at him; to slap him, or to laugh or cry. Even a sneer. Any reaction at all was better than this stony aloofness.
What he didn't know was the nameless, faceless horror that oppressed her dreams whenever she drifted off to sleep. She would try to scream herself awake, but fear paralyzed her as the blackness crept into her opened mouth and down her throat, choking her. It pressed against the inside of her chest from her lungs and sat on the outside of it, crushing her and eating her simultaneously. It had finally driven her early from their bed. She didn't tell him. She was afraid if she tried, the darkness would pour from her mouth instead of words, and then they'd both perish. It was better this way.
Instead, she said, "You're the one who interrupted my bath asking for a cup of tea. If you want me to make it, then you'll bring me the kettle." She said it slowly, like an adult trying to instruct a slow child, dangling the empty cup from her little finger to emphasize her point. He didn't move for a few moments, staring down at her, trying to rip the truth from her empty face.
"Say it," she ordered tonelessly.
He remained silent. The accusation was on the tip of his brain, aching to burst its way out, but he couldn't bring himself to commit to that final act that would be the destruction of them. If he verbalized what he woke up condemning her for. . .
"Say it, or get the fuck out of my face."
Burning love warred with smoldering hate across the battlefield of his countenance; twins turned against one another, neither stronger than the other. Neither capable of defeating the other. He wanted her to care that she was hurting him. Her apathetic face mocked his pain-stricken face, he felt. He turned abruptly from her, leaving her in her empty tub.
She wondered fleetingly if he would actually bring the kettle, and whether she should have asked for the leaves as well. She knew he'd be angry when she sent him back, but she couldn't find the strength to care. She pushed him easily out of her mind to continue staring at the faucet. She wanted to turn it on, she was cold. But she was afraid the darkness would flood out of it instead of water. She shivered.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Blindfold Test, Book 4.1 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project
Judge a Book By Its Cover
When i picked The Blindfold Test for this category, i could'nt wait to read and find out what it's about. I mean, how do you turn down a book with a cut-out disguise on the cover?! There's only one correct answer to that question: You don't.
I've owned this book for about four months now, and i've been successful with avoiding reading the back cover or flipping through the pages (you just don't KNOW what kind of torment this has been!). But now that i'm remembering the "Write about what you expect it's going to be about based solely on the cover art" part, I'm kind of at a loss. I have NO idea what to expect. I know that any guess on my part is going to miss the mark like Helen Keller with a sniper rifle, but here we go:
I think we'll find a stalker ex girlfriend going to extremes to avoid being made by the targets: her ex boyfriend and his new girl. She's a master of disguise, blending into the background as she pursues them from place to place, waiting for her opportunity to strike.
I'm not sure how the title's going to fit in with this plot.
Or maybe. . .
A guy is kidnapped and blindfolded by corporate goons wearing cheesy disguises (you know, so they can't be identified and stuff). The goons throw the hapless guy into a dark room with a single dull lightbulb suspended from the ceiling over a table with two chairs opposing one another. In front of him are two cups of liquid, and his opinion is being forcibly solicited:
"Which one tastes better", they demand, "Which one feels better on the tongue?" "Which one has the better aroma?" "Which one? WHICH ONE?!"
He's caught in the middle of a corporation flavour-war. The ultimate Pepsi challenge has been issued, and he's not sure he's up to the task.
At least the title fits, right?
Or maybe. . .
He's been invited to a Halloween party with his girlfriend. He abhors dressing up and refuses to waste any money on something he knows he'll never wear again. The solution? Some construction paper, a pair of scissors and some string. He'll cut himself out some sunglasses and a fake beard, then raid his uncle's closet for his old army-issue trench coat. Maybe he'll get lucky and find a ridiculous hat, too. Lame? Maybe. But at the end of the night, at least he will still have his fifty bucks and his dignity. Well, maybe not his dignity.
Again, not sure how the title'll tie into a plot like that. I think i'm just going to have to face the fact that i'm shooting in the dark with blanks here. So here're my hopes for the book, which are more realistic than the expectations i've just created on the spot (honestly, i've got no expectations at all):
* I hope it's funny, and the humour is dry and/or cheesy.
* I hope the author doesn't try anypretentious "ground breaking" literary styles that'll make it difficult to read.
* I hope it involves a guy NOT getting the girl (or vice versa).
* I hope the Blindfold part isn't figurative.
* I hope it isn't set in the 1980's.
* I hope there's some disguising and/or furtiveness involved.
* I hope it isn't secret agent crap.
* I hope the main character is geeky.
Now i think i'll go read. Balls know i've waited long enough!
I've owned this book for about four months now, and i've been successful with avoiding reading the back cover or flipping through the pages (you just don't KNOW what kind of torment this has been!). But now that i'm remembering the "Write about what you expect it's going to be about based solely on the cover art" part, I'm kind of at a loss. I have NO idea what to expect. I know that any guess on my part is going to miss the mark like Helen Keller with a sniper rifle, but here we go:
I think we'll find a stalker ex girlfriend going to extremes to avoid being made by the targets: her ex boyfriend and his new girl. She's a master of disguise, blending into the background as she pursues them from place to place, waiting for her opportunity to strike.
I'm not sure how the title's going to fit in with this plot.
Or maybe. . .
A guy is kidnapped and blindfolded by corporate goons wearing cheesy disguises (you know, so they can't be identified and stuff). The goons throw the hapless guy into a dark room with a single dull lightbulb suspended from the ceiling over a table with two chairs opposing one another. In front of him are two cups of liquid, and his opinion is being forcibly solicited:
"Which one tastes better", they demand, "Which one feels better on the tongue?" "Which one has the better aroma?" "Which one? WHICH ONE?!"
He's caught in the middle of a corporation flavour-war. The ultimate Pepsi challenge has been issued, and he's not sure he's up to the task.
At least the title fits, right?
Or maybe. . .
He's been invited to a Halloween party with his girlfriend. He abhors dressing up and refuses to waste any money on something he knows he'll never wear again. The solution? Some construction paper, a pair of scissors and some string. He'll cut himself out some sunglasses and a fake beard, then raid his uncle's closet for his old army-issue trench coat. Maybe he'll get lucky and find a ridiculous hat, too. Lame? Maybe. But at the end of the night, at least he will still have his fifty bucks and his dignity. Well, maybe not his dignity.
Again, not sure how the title'll tie into a plot like that. I think i'm just going to have to face the fact that i'm shooting in the dark with blanks here. So here're my hopes for the book, which are more realistic than the expectations i've just created on the spot (honestly, i've got no expectations at all):
* I hope it's funny, and the humour is dry and/or cheesy.
* I hope the author doesn't try any
* I hope it involves a guy NOT getting the girl (or vice versa).
* I hope the Blindfold part isn't figurative.
* I hope it isn't set in the 1980's.
* I hope there's some disguising and/or furtiveness involved.
* I hope it isn't secret agent crap.
* I hope the main character is geeky.
Now i think i'll go read. Balls know i've waited long enough!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Kiss Me (Dew Write)
Mass Merriment <--Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.
"Come on, don't be like that! Kiss me," she whined, amusement fading rapidly from her face.
He rolled over onto his side, pushed himself up one one elbow and looked down at her. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But she knew it, and it made her slightly unbearable. His initial declining of her invitation made her laugh. In her world, those invitations are never refused -at least they never had been until now, and certainly never by the likes of him. He was perfectly aware of his status as a nobody and the "honor" she was, in her opinion, bestowing on him.
Then he refused the "honor" again.
She waited, fully confident that he didn't mean it. She lay on the ground in her perfectly matched Hollister outfit, chosen for that carefully worn-in look. The corn-silk hair that spread out around her head could've been arranged atop the bright, lush grass by a media expert preparing a shampoo commercial. Her understated makeup accentuated rather than added to the natural beauty of her stereotypically bright blue eyes. . . lovely, self-assured blue eyes, without the least trace of pleading. She reminded him of a brilliantly coloured Easter egg laying there in the grass, demanding to be snatched up and prized (if eggs could demand). She was absolutely resplendent with all the blush and bloom of her sixteen years.
Sunlight glinted off of the faintest shimmer of nude-tinted lip balm, issuing its own invitation to feed upon those supple, rosebud lips. He imagined himself succumbing to her expectation and his own natural inclination, dipping his face down to meet that velvety aperture. Without ever touching them, he knew how her lips would feel on his. They would be perfectly moist, but not wet; firm, but yielding. Hungry, but not grateful to be fed. How could she appreciate that which she felt fully entitled to?
He shoved that thought aside, envisioning parting those petals and probing them gently with his tongue. He wouldn't enter unless invited. He would make her meet him half way, at least. He could make that one small demand of this self-possessed creature, couldn't he? That she show him that she was interested in something besides his compliance? That she wanted the flavour of him, not the flavour of conquering him? For surely he would be the conquest, not she. The concept of surrender did not exist for her.
But what was conquest to she who commanded tribute from everyone and everything she rested those baby blues on? In her world, everything in her sights was already hers. Including him.
He turned his sight from his fancies back to her, knowing he'd never be able to get out of his head long enough to enjoy this kiss that dozens of the Somebodies he knew would kill for. He lay back down next to her, feeling disregarded and wounded by her need to be adored. Adoring her in spite of himself.
Why couldn't he just kiss her? Why did he resent wanting her so much that he couldn't just do it? Why did he feel the need to retaliate? It isn't as though she intended his feelings any harm -or was even aware that she was harming them at all. She just didn't know any better. Impotent, inarticulate indignation fortified him, and he decided he would be the first to conquer her.
"I just don't like you that way."
"Come on, don't be like that! Kiss me," she whined, amusement fading rapidly from her face.
He rolled over onto his side, pushed himself up one one elbow and looked down at her. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But she knew it, and it made her slightly unbearable. His initial declining of her invitation made her laugh. In her world, those invitations are never refused -at least they never had been until now, and certainly never by the likes of him. He was perfectly aware of his status as a nobody and the "honor" she was, in her opinion, bestowing on him.
Then he refused the "honor" again.
She waited, fully confident that he didn't mean it. She lay on the ground in her perfectly matched Hollister outfit, chosen for that carefully worn-in look. The corn-silk hair that spread out around her head could've been arranged atop the bright, lush grass by a media expert preparing a shampoo commercial. Her understated makeup accentuated rather than added to the natural beauty of her stereotypically bright blue eyes. . . lovely, self-assured blue eyes, without the least trace of pleading. She reminded him of a brilliantly coloured Easter egg laying there in the grass, demanding to be snatched up and prized (if eggs could demand). She was absolutely resplendent with all the blush and bloom of her sixteen years.
Sunlight glinted off of the faintest shimmer of nude-tinted lip balm, issuing its own invitation to feed upon those supple, rosebud lips. He imagined himself succumbing to her expectation and his own natural inclination, dipping his face down to meet that velvety aperture. Without ever touching them, he knew how her lips would feel on his. They would be perfectly moist, but not wet; firm, but yielding. Hungry, but not grateful to be fed. How could she appreciate that which she felt fully entitled to?
He shoved that thought aside, envisioning parting those petals and probing them gently with his tongue. He wouldn't enter unless invited. He would make her meet him half way, at least. He could make that one small demand of this self-possessed creature, couldn't he? That she show him that she was interested in something besides his compliance? That she wanted the flavour of him, not the flavour of conquering him? For surely he would be the conquest, not she. The concept of surrender did not exist for her.
But what was conquest to she who commanded tribute from everyone and everything she rested those baby blues on? In her world, everything in her sights was already hers. Including him.
He turned his sight from his fancies back to her, knowing he'd never be able to get out of his head long enough to enjoy this kiss that dozens of the Somebodies he knew would kill for. He lay back down next to her, feeling disregarded and wounded by her need to be adored. Adoring her in spite of himself.
Why couldn't he just kiss her? Why did he resent wanting her so much that he couldn't just do it? Why did he feel the need to retaliate? It isn't as though she intended his feelings any harm -or was even aware that she was harming them at all. She just didn't know any better. Impotent, inarticulate indignation fortified him, and he decided he would be the first to conquer her.
"I just don't like you that way."
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Autumn is. . . (Dew Write)
Dew Write <---Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.
I shuffled my feet through the pile of leaves i just spent all morning raking up off of the lawn that i don't care about. The browns of dead leaves are much lovelier than the browns of dead grass, i decided, tracking the leaves back across the lawn. It looked kind of naked without the leaves covering it up. The lawn, i mean. But i did just spend all morning cultivating that nude look. . . if i cover it back up, i'll have wasted my time.
Or would i have? I mean, is it a waste of time to erase something, if what i wrote over it was better? And wouldn't the wind eventually do that anyway? Blow the leaves back around the yard, i mean. It isn't as though stray leaves from another lawn will obey the invisible boundaries of tidiness i just created. Better me than the wind, i agreed to myself. Shuffling is going to take all day, though, i'd better start running. . . maybe pick some up and toss them in the air for more even grass-coverage.
But would it be so bad to take all day? I'm always in such a hurry, and it's so nice outside. I can't quite see my breath, and i'm just warm enough in my hooded sweater. The browns are so vibrant, and i can smell the threat of snow in the coming months.
No, it would be better to take all day, i concluded. Soon, i'll have to bundle up and drive carefully over the treacherous roads, sitting uncomfortably in my car in clothing that makes me feel large and ungainly. Better to savor the browns before they fade to white.
This is what Autumn is. Autumn is taking all day re-blanketing the yard with leaves, wearing my hoodie, and marveling at the browns before the snow hides them all from me.
I shuffled my feet through the pile of leaves i just spent all morning raking up off of the lawn that i don't care about. The browns of dead leaves are much lovelier than the browns of dead grass, i decided, tracking the leaves back across the lawn. It looked kind of naked without the leaves covering it up. The lawn, i mean. But i did just spend all morning cultivating that nude look. . . if i cover it back up, i'll have wasted my time.
Or would i have? I mean, is it a waste of time to erase something, if what i wrote over it was better? And wouldn't the wind eventually do that anyway? Blow the leaves back around the yard, i mean. It isn't as though stray leaves from another lawn will obey the invisible boundaries of tidiness i just created. Better me than the wind, i agreed to myself. Shuffling is going to take all day, though, i'd better start running. . . maybe pick some up and toss them in the air for more even grass-coverage.
But would it be so bad to take all day? I'm always in such a hurry, and it's so nice outside. I can't quite see my breath, and i'm just warm enough in my hooded sweater. The browns are so vibrant, and i can smell the threat of snow in the coming months.
No, it would be better to take all day, i concluded. Soon, i'll have to bundle up and drive carefully over the treacherous roads, sitting uncomfortably in my car in clothing that makes me feel large and ungainly. Better to savor the browns before they fade to white.
This is what Autumn is. Autumn is taking all day re-blanketing the yard with leaves, wearing my hoodie, and marveling at the browns before the snow hides them all from me.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Cussing At Work
My boss and i have an interesting relationship. Usually, she likes me as a person and doesn't object to some of the aspects of my personality seem that irk a lot of other people. Usually.
Occasionally, though, she has to pull me into her office to discuss some of these more irksome personality traits because i've offended somebody else with them. Believe me, i've got quite a few unsavory characteristics, but the chart-topper has always been my choice in verbiage. I kind of figured that was the purpose of today's Come To Jesus, and my suspicions were confirmed when she handed me this memo.
Dear Employee:
It has been brought to management's attention that some individuals throughout the company have been using foul language during the course of normal conversation with their co-workers.
Due to complaints received from some employees who may be more easily offended, this type of language will no longer be tolerated. We do, however, realize the critical importance of being able to accurately express your feelings when communicating with co-workers.
Therefore, a list of 18 new and innovative 'Try Saying' phrases have been provided so that proper exchange of ideas and information can continue in an effective manner.
1, Try saying: I think you could use more training
Instead of: You don't know what the fuck you're doing.
2, Try saying: She's an aggressive go-getter
Instead of: She's a fucking bitch.
3, Try saying: Perhaps I can work late
Instead of: And when the fuck do you expect me to do this?!
4, Try saying: I'm certain that isn't feasible
Instead of: No fucking way.
5, Try saying: Really?
Instead of: You've got to be shitting me!
6, Try saying: Perhaps you should check with. . .
Instead of: Tell it to someone who gives a shit.
7, Try saying: I wasn't involved with the project
Instead of: It's not my fucking problem.
8, Try saying: That's interesting!
Instead of: What the fuck?!
9, Try saying: I'm not sure this can be implemented
Instead of: This shit won't work.
10, Try saying: I'll try to schedule that
Instead of: Why the fuck didn't you tell me sooner?!
11, Try saying: He's not familiar with the issues
Instead of: He's got his head up his ass.
12, Try saying: Excuse me, sir?
Instead of: Eat a dick.
13, Try saying: So you weren't happy with it?
Instead of: Kiss my ass.
14, Try saying: I'm a bit overloaded at the moment.
Instead of: Do it yourfuckingself!
15, Try saying: I don't think you understand
Instead of: This is bullshit.
16, Try saying: I love a challenge
Instead of: This job blows ass.
17, Try saying: You want me to take care of that?
Instead of: Who fucking died and made you boss?
18, Try saying: He's somewhat insensitive
Instead of: He's a douche.
Hopefully using these alternative phrases will ease relations between you and your co-workers, while allowing you the freedom to express yourself in an environment that will make everybody, including you, more comfortable.
Thank you in advance for your full and immediate compliance.
Jane S******n
Senior Human Resources Consultant.
As i read through this memo, i was really outdoing myself in my heroic effort to maintain a straight face. I leapt through all the hoops: lip-biting, pressing my lips together, coughing, holding the paper at eye-level to conceal my face. . . seriously. I went the distance.
When i felt i was composed enough, i put the memo back on her desk and waited expectantly for the eminent reprimand. We stared at each other across the vast, paper-littered wasteland of a desk. The corner of my mouth twitched, partially with nervousness, but mostly with ill-concealed mirth. Finally, we both burst out laughing until we cried and our cheeks were sore. My stomach was in knots and her mascara had sustained irreparable damage.
Me: So, uh, someone doesn't appreciate my diction?
Rosalind: Nah, i got it in an email, and it reminded me of you.
Me: So this isn't a real write-up?
Rosalind: Nope.
Me: Jane S******n. Nice touch.
Rosalind: I thought so.
Me: This sounds like it was tailor made for me.
Rosalind: Yeah, i changed some of it to stuff you actually say.
Me: You're a real aggressive go-getter, you know that?
Rosalind: You weren't happy with it?
Occasionally, though, she has to pull me into her office to discuss some of these more irksome personality traits because i've offended somebody else with them. Believe me, i've got quite a few unsavory characteristics, but the chart-topper has always been my choice in verbiage. I kind of figured that was the purpose of today's Come To Jesus, and my suspicions were confirmed when she handed me this memo.
Dear Employee:
It has been brought to management's attention that some individuals throughout the company have been using foul language during the course of normal conversation with their co-workers.
Due to complaints received from some employees who may be more easily offended, this type of language will no longer be tolerated. We do, however, realize the critical importance of being able to accurately express your feelings when communicating with co-workers.
Therefore, a list of 18 new and innovative 'Try Saying' phrases have been provided so that proper exchange of ideas and information can continue in an effective manner.
1, Try saying: I think you could use more training
Instead of: You don't know what the fuck you're doing.
2, Try saying: She's an aggressive go-getter
Instead of: She's a fucking bitch.
3, Try saying: Perhaps I can work late
Instead of: And when the fuck do you expect me to do this?!
4, Try saying: I'm certain that isn't feasible
Instead of: No fucking way.
5, Try saying: Really?
Instead of: You've got to be shitting me!
6, Try saying: Perhaps you should check with. . .
Instead of: Tell it to someone who gives a shit.
7, Try saying: I wasn't involved with the project
Instead of: It's not my fucking problem.
8, Try saying: That's interesting!
Instead of: What the fuck?!
9, Try saying: I'm not sure this can be implemented
Instead of: This shit won't work.
10, Try saying: I'll try to schedule that
Instead of: Why the fuck didn't you tell me sooner?!
11, Try saying: He's not familiar with the issues
Instead of: He's got his head up his ass.
12, Try saying: Excuse me, sir?
Instead of: Eat a dick.
13, Try saying: So you weren't happy with it?
Instead of: Kiss my ass.
14, Try saying: I'm a bit overloaded at the moment.
Instead of: Do it yourfuckingself!
15, Try saying: I don't think you understand
Instead of: This is bullshit.
16, Try saying: I love a challenge
Instead of: This job blows ass.
17, Try saying: You want me to take care of that?
Instead of: Who fucking died and made you boss?
18, Try saying: He's somewhat insensitive
Instead of: He's a douche.
Hopefully using these alternative phrases will ease relations between you and your co-workers, while allowing you the freedom to express yourself in an environment that will make everybody, including you, more comfortable.
Thank you in advance for your full and immediate compliance.
Jane S******n
Senior Human Resources Consultant.
As i read through this memo, i was really outdoing myself in my heroic effort to maintain a straight face. I leapt through all the hoops: lip-biting, pressing my lips together, coughing, holding the paper at eye-level to conceal my face. . . seriously. I went the distance.
When i felt i was composed enough, i put the memo back on her desk and waited expectantly for the eminent reprimand. We stared at each other across the vast, paper-littered wasteland of a desk. The corner of my mouth twitched, partially with nervousness, but mostly with ill-concealed mirth. Finally, we both burst out laughing until we cried and our cheeks were sore. My stomach was in knots and her mascara had sustained irreparable damage.
Me: So, uh, someone doesn't appreciate my diction?
Rosalind: Nah, i got it in an email, and it reminded me of you.
Me: So this isn't a real write-up?
Rosalind: Nope.
Me: Jane S******n. Nice touch.
Rosalind: I thought so.
Me: This sounds like it was tailor made for me.
Rosalind: Yeah, i changed some of it to stuff you actually say.
Me: You're a real aggressive go-getter, you know that?
Rosalind: You weren't happy with it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)