Idiotcapades — back for a second run

Subtitle: Fucknuggets gone amok!

Oh, where do I even BEGIN to talk about the complete stupidity I have encountered today?

It started off with an e-mail from Cruise Director, asking me to please juggle the layout to run an important letter to the editor that just arrived last night. No big deal — all I have to do is cut a letter that already made it into the layout and just keep it till next month.

But then, an e-mail arrives from my idiot supervisor who has not a god damn thing better to do. It arrives with the big red priority flag on it, and it reads:



(Cruise Director) didn’t put the exclamation point next to this to let you know it is important.  See what you can do, please.


(Pussy Demure)

I must have laughed for a good 40 minutes. Really, it wasn’t funny — just pathetic how ridiculously seriously she took her role in this. I mean, shit, it’s not like I would ignore an e-mail from the head of our organization, for cripes’ sake. I mean, when you get an e-mail from him, you know it’s important. He doesn’t need a fucking exclamation point next to his name, does he now?

Of course, other things happened during the day to test our sense of humor, not limited to the fact that Town Crier, pissed off about the lack of access to the second-floor restrooms, sent a scathing memo to Cruise Director, who, in turn, went nuts on CFO, who went nuts on the gal here in charge. The gal here has been harassing the workers five times a day to get their asses in here and finish their damn job. In fact, she has promised us that she will go in tomorrow and clean it herself if the workers don’t come back. Y’know, it’s not like it’s say, the elevator, that’s inaccessible. Fuckmonkey.

But then even more stupidity occurred when the Queen Pooper (and High Priestess of Toilet Town) got mad at the 17 strips of masking tape barricading the door to the ladies’ room (it looks like a British flag), so she ripped them all down and went in there to take a shit. Like she couldn’t fucking walk up or down one motherfucking flight of steps — or take the elevator. Assnugget.

And this doesn’t even begin to cover all the dildos on ice who have been bugging me about the delicious-looking King Cake that our beloved Tricia sent my way. I was saving it for my first-ever full-staff meeting (my worker in Indianapolis was in today for production day). During the past few days, I have gotten at least a dozen and a half inquiries about when I planned to cut the cake and whether I’d give them a piece. I even had one fucktard yesterday ask if I’d cut it, and I said no, so he opened the goddamn UPS box just to check it out and make sure I wasn’t lying to him. I wanted to castrate him.

The cake was fabulous, BTW (nods to Tricia). My gal in from Indy got the baby in the cake, so she is happy to buy the cake again next year, so long as she doesn’t actually have to have a baby!

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