Workforce - 7

WORKFORCE - Sam Acheson

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In which we meet another member of the Atlantean gentry; uncomfortably close and uncomfortably reduced circumstances.

It's a SCREW YOU Tuesday

Today's Screw You Tuesday is dedicated to you, Sock Boy.

So today Chris and I went to San Francisco for a day of smiles and health food - or at least a day of sniping, clashing neuroses, nervous hypertension, seething resentment, and health food- during which we made one of many stops to the Hate Assberry or whatever the hell that place is called, the place twentysomething hipsters bow towards during their six daily prayers. We went (don't ask me why) to a store that sold socks. Yes, indeed, it was a store dedicated in it's entirety to socks.

The clerk was a perfectly affable boy whose resemblance to Jeffrey Dahmer was unfortunately pronounced and who couldn't make up his mind which one of us he was flirting with (Chris or myself; he went for me originally, but after my fourth somewhat pointed remark about his place of business he went back to making calfs-eyes at Christopher) and we asked him what place he reccomended for lunch. He recommended the thai restaurant next door.

And it was fucking terrible.

Fuck you, Sock Boy.

Mindscrew - PART 1

My play for next quarter's brown bag! RESPECT, BITCHES.

Workforce - 6

WORKFORCE
By Sam Acheson

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In which we take a break from both exposition and character development; a tour of a new home, and a phone call with the folks.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled post...

Today's entry is postponed in favor of a long, primal scream, brought to you by chronic migraines and a lack of over-the-counter painkillers.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!

Thank you.

It's a SCREW YOU Tuesday

Today's Screw You Tuesday is dedicated to you, Jogging Fuckwit.

Alright, so you're health concious and you care about bpm and bmi and byob and all that shit, right? Apparently you wanted me to know that it's rude to walk on a track. Even though it was six in the evening and the park was entirely empty except for me, my knapsack, and you. That must by why, every rotation, you felt the need to change your trajectory by about a foot so you ran right by me, passing on the right close enough to brush my coat sleeve, as though I'm an inconsiderate motorist in the fast lane. Then, every time, you also felt the need to glance over your shoulder, in case I hadn't quite grasped the fact that I'd impeded you in your quest for physical well-being.

This Screw You Tuesday is for you, because you know what? The track is twenty goddamn feet wide. I don't care if avoiding me makes you gain two meters per kilometer. I hope someone drugs you and force-feeds you a pint of ice cream, you Lycra-clad jockstrapped mouth breathing little monotreme. Screw you and your BMI. I pray fervently to my kinky tentacled god of chaos and horror that your metabolism tanks when you hit 25 and you turn 26 in a mumu and a little motorized cart, nursing sullenly from a carton of half-and-half in the express line at Walmart.

This has been the first of many Screw You Tuesdays, your first weekly offering from the Ministry of Narcissism.