A sign of things to comma

Yes, yes, I know it’s been a while since I posted something.

Work has been really busy lately as I was recently promoted (small smattering of applause can be heard somewhere at the back, followed by a hacking dry cough and a murmuring to just ‘get on with it’), so I haven’t had a lot of time to put fingers on keyboard.

However, I can find 5 minutes to share this little moment of sheer joy.

So I arrived at the office this morning and noticed this small sign on someone’s desk.

Some of you can probably see where this is going

Now, for clarity, this ‘someone’ is the head of a department. Like, he’s WAY up there in the echelons of senior management, and this sign is clearly a visual aid to encourage energy, teamwork and whatever he feels necessitates this sign.

But….

Being the Grammar-Nazi I am, couldn’t help myself!

Ah, the humble comma; how we miss you.

In this context, it’s not so much a visual aid than a visual impairment, depending on your aim.

But I’m sure he’ll see the funny side of this and will be fine with me mocking his grammatical oversight, plus….

…I don’t want to rub it in.

Aaaahthankyou!

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A sweet, sticky thing….

So….

I’ve just discovered there’s a doughnut shop here in Vegas called ‘Pink Box’; an establishment known for it’s sweet, sticky treats with a hole.

And, apparently, there’s also a place called ‘Pink Taco’.  You just can’t make this shit up.

It’s guess it’s just a different sense of humour on the (w)hole [smirk] because no-one seems to find these as remotely funny as I do, especially when I’ve just been asked if I want anything from Pink Box.

Yes….yes I do.

Nom nom nom

Just so you know, my Pink Box treat was suitably filled.

Two in the pink….

Usually,  when I write a post,  it’s regarding a situation or event that either amused me…or frustrated me to the point where it was simply laughable. 

But sometimes,  just sometimes,  something comes along that requires no back story or train of thought. 

So,  in keeping true to my ‘Life Is Funny’ mantra,  here is a photo of a van I was stuck behind in traffic the other day. 

In this post I claimed energy drinks gave you anal seepage; it now seems they have a remedy for that. 

Car Wash Catastrophe

The last couple of times I’ve used an automated car wash, the steel tracks that your wheels sit in have pulled off some rubber thingies on the bottom of my car.  Apparently these rubber thingies are there to make the car more aerodynamic.

I can’t tell the difference if I’m honest, but they’re left hanging loose, flapping in the wind like Ron Jeremy but not as entertaining.

hanging-down

Bloody annoying!

In an attempt to avoid buying new ‘pop rivets’ to reattach said rubber thingies after potentially every car wash, I’ve been on the search for a manual or hand car wash.  Even the ‘100% Hand Car Wash’ places I’ve discovered have you drive your wheels into the same big ol’ steel tracks.

I think the concept of percentage is lost on some people.

Anyway, I recently found a manual jet wash place that allows you to wash the car yourself with a multitude of water guns and hoses and settings and stuff.

Fun!

So, last night I parked the car up in the jet wash bay, swiped my card through the card swipey thing and got to work; prewash, soap, rinse, wax, spot-free rinse, triple coat and air hose. I was having a whale of a time.

Except….

I was there for almost 20 minutes, the car was still dirty in places that I’d missed with the brush under the thick, frothy, jizzy foam and the car windows now look like the aftermath of a bukkake scene.  Needless to say, I’m not happy.

I guess I have to bite the bullet and use an automated car wash again.  I can’t drive around with a car that looks like a plasterer’s radio.

painters-radio

Oh, and if my parents are reading this….do NOT Google bukkake.

Ever.

The day I tongue-tied a lesbian.

The girl who sits behind me at work is gay.  Is that a relevant or appropriate start to this post?  You betcha.  Let’s call her Cholula.

So, a few of us were talking about pets, particularly dogs and cats, and Cholula said she wanted a dog.  However, she didn’t want anything too vicious as she has a cat.

At this moment her phone rang. As she went to pick up the phone she said, “I don’t want anything eating my cat”.

I quickly replied with, “That’s not what she used to say in her single days.”

She laughed, gagged, fucked up her phone greeting and had to apologise to the caller.

Are you talking at me?

I’m currently sat in the waiting room of the physical therapy clinic whilst my wife undergoes another session following her double ACL knee surgery a few weeks back.

Whew, that was a long sentence.

Anyway, I’m sat here reading crap on my phone (as usual) when I felt the prescence of someone sit down three seats to my left.

A miniscule fraction of a nanosecond passed before I heard a southern American drawl aimed in my general direction.

“That’s a lot of tattoos”

I chose to pretend I hadn’t heard her and kept reading whatever bollocks I was reading on my phone, knowing full well she was talking to me.

How do I know?  Well, because:

A) I have two full tattoo sleeves, and

B) I’m the only other person here.

I could feel her looking at me awaiting some sort of response, like a gormless child waiting for a firework display to begin; slack jawed and unblinking.

The act of ignoring someone does not come as easy to me as many would think, so I succumbed to literal peer pressure and looked up at her old, heavily tanned, heavily cheekboned (due to one surgical procedure too many) face.

I gave her a fake smile.

“A lot of tattoos huh?” she pointlessly asked, in case I hadn’t caught the gist of her last unwelcomed comment.

For a second I toyed with the cliché response of “Oh shit, where the fuck did THEY come from??”, but instead I lifted one arm, admired it for a moment and chuckled a friendly(ish) reply:

“Yeah. And a lot of pain too.”

That should be enough to end this unwanted conversation, I thought.

Wrong.

“Wow, gee whizz”, she continued with me now back to my phone, attempting to re-ignore her.

She then paused for a few seconds to, I assume, scan all my artwork.

Then she let out an audible shudder.

Have you ever heard someone audibly shudder?

What kind of reaction is that?

It’s impossible to describe the sound with the written word, but it was like she had spiders suddenly running up and down her sinewy but saggy, slightly hunched, leathery body.

Silent shudder.

Don’t ask…

My wife is ill.

Living in America I should really say ‘my wife is sick’, but I can’t use that sentence without wanting to add ‘and twisted’ on the end.

So….my wife is ill.

Very ill actually.

She has spent most of the day – and last night – coughing, sneezing, throwing up and sporting a high temperature.  What’s even worse is the fact I had to cancel our 6:20pm showing of Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

It’s such an emotional time.

Unfortunately I couldn’t cancel the tickets online with the same ease I booked them, so I had to put on outside clothing and drive to the cinema.

Sorry, ‘Movie Theatre’.

Sorry, ‘Movie Theater

(rolls eyes)

After a 35 minute drive I arrived at the cinema and headed into the noisy, bustling foyer.  I navigated the slow, shuffling popcorn munching morons and made a beeline for the box office desk.

The young girl behind the (bulletproof?) glass called me over and I pushed my pre-printed ticket under the glass towards her.

“I need to cancel these tickets; my wife is sick (and twisted) and so we can’t make the 6:30 showing”.

She smiled, took my tickets and proceeded to scan stuff and type things on her tiny little keyboard.

After a few seconds she said, “So I have to ask, where are you from?”

Did you have to ask?

“From Vegas, born and bred” I replied, with a smile.

She looked at me blankly, an emotion came across her face (ooer!) which I can only describe as bemusement.  No, wait….confusion; the word is confusion.

I decided to help her out.

“Just kidding, I’m originally from the UK”.

She smiled (out of relief mostly) and what followed were the usual questions of “How do you like it here?” and “How is it different from the UK?” etc.

After a minute or so of “I don’t miss the clouds and rain” and “Well, the TV over here sucks” she smiled again at me and slipped me my refund receipt.

Before I could thank her and leave, she hit me with this one…

“Let me ask you one more question; since you’ve been here what stereotype of Americans have you found not to be true?”

Wow, this was an interesting one.  Where do I start?

Actually, where DO I start?  I couldn’t think of a single stereotype off the top of my head and here I had this young girl smiling at me, expecting an answer…..an honest answer.

Naturally.

So I went with the most common stereotype; the one that is synonymous with Americans, known the world over.

“Well, there’s the stereotype that Americans are stupid…” I began.

Her face dropped.

The foyer fell silent.

I felt like that out of town stranger who had walked into a saloon in the Old West.  Even the popcorn had stopped mid-pop.

She looked mortified and started spouting some bollocks about the revolutionary war and the fact that it was actually the English fighting the English or something.  I tuned out to be honest.

Hey, she asked the question.  Be prepared for the answer.  Well, half the answer in this case.

Before I could say that I found that stereotype to be (mostly) untrue, she looked behind me and said “Next please”.

Oh dear.  Touch a nerve did I?

As I got in my car I smiled to myself as I nearly said, ‘Americans are very easily offended’.

Cunt.

See?

ron offended

Wait, she DID ask for an American stereotype that I had found not to be true…right?

Right?