Thursday, January 7, 2010

smoke breaks

Eh, so I guess it's Thursday. That means you survived yesterday's HUMP DAY PUMP UP; and no I'm not going to link it - just scroll down, vagface. Lol, I haven't even put together the HDPU, but I'm already commenting on you surviving it. Jeez, what if it sucked? I'd probably look like a pretty big asshole.

But not as big an asshole as Asshole Number 1, who (m, whom? I don't know, f u) I'll be describing in a few.

I've been noticing something kind of fucked up happening at work: people taking smoke breaks. No, smoke breaks aren't the fucked up thing, though getting paid to inhale cancer is kind of fucked up, if you think about it.

The smoke breaks I have a problem with are the ones at like 4:45 pm. Not that I have a problem with the time, "4:45 pm" or anything, but like, if you get done with work at 5 pm, that's kinda screwy.

You following me? If not, let me paint a literary picture of words, phrases, and (mostly) incomplete sentences:

Asshole Number 1 is addicted to cigarettes (lol!), and partakes in various smoke breaks throughout the day. But he times his pathetic cravings out so that he has his last one at 4:45. Like 15 minutes until he leaves for the day. Ummmmm...

You couldn't wait the 15 minutes to smoke on your own time?

You don't want to smoke in your car on the way home? I don't blame you, no smoking in my car either.

You'd rather look like an asshole to everybody in the entire office building? Cause you look like an asshole regardless of whether you smoke cigarettes or not.

Like, what's your problem?

You do realize that because of your shitty choices, you're getting paid to smoke? It's no secret that smoking kills you slowly, and you're paying like what, $4 or $5 a pack to do it? Let me sweeten the deal for you: I'll give you $5000 USD if you shove a pair of scissors into your skull. You'll never have to buy a pack of cigarettes again!

And you know what else? I've walked into the bathroom at the same time as you before, right after you finish smoking. After heading to separate, but equal, urine receptacles, and then peeing, our bathroom experiences take divergent paths - you head right out the door, wiping your dick, piss, and cancer covered hands all over the door knob, and whatever else you touch, you sick fuck.

And then there's me, I head over to the handwashing station, conveniently called a sink, and wash my hands. Don't worry, I grab an extra paper towel to handle the doorknob that you just infected with your brand of turdshitpiss filth.

See, that's the difference between us, you're a dickless, cancer-getting, non-handwashing fruitloop; and I'm just a dude tryin' to stay clean, man.

Get emphysema and die, pussy.

God, what an asshole.

On a totally unrelated note, I'm typing this up Sunday evening, and the Cowboys-Eagles game is on. I just totally watched a Cowboy, #97, get his helmet torn off, and sack the shit out of Eagles quarterback, Donovan McNabb. Pretty bad ass.

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