Hardly Working

It can get slightly boring when you're working a closing shift at the store and there are no customers for the last hour and a half and you've already folded and cleaned everything within the five-square-foot radius surrounding the register.


One takes it upon oneself to amuse. . .oneself.


And this is how my oneself accomplished amusement:


By drawing random pictures on the back of email slips.








I like giraffes.

I like robots too.

 

This is what I would look like if I were anime.

 

My place of work.

 

They're holding hands.   GET IT?!

It's the Final Countdown! BUH NA NA NA!

Hey, Self!  Oh, you don't look too well.

Mmmmrrrffffkkkffraarrrkkff. . .

Sorry, didn't catch that.

Kill. . .me. . .

Um, seeing as you're me, that would be counter-intuitive, Patty.

Please. . .

Are finals really that bad?

. . . . . .

***SAMURAI SWORD IN THE FACE!***

*DEAD.*

Huh.  I wonder if she realized finals were over today.

Man-Beast-Dog.

 The following is an actual conversation that occurred between Teresa and Will around the night of December 8, 2010.

[[HUUAARRGHUGHHHH!!!!]]

T: "...what the f@$# was that??"

W: "That noise? It was a dog."

T: "No way in hell that was a dog..."

[[HUUAARRGHUGHHHH!!!!]]

T: "There it is again!!!"

W: "It's a dog..."

T: "It's NOT a dog! It sounds like a guy throwing up or something."

W: "It has to be a dog."

T: "Why do you think it *has* to be a dog?"

[[Huuaarrghughhh. HUUAARRGHUGHHHH!!!!]]

T: "That totally sounds like a guy throwing up."

W: "It's a dog!"

T: "Why do you think that??"

W: "It has to be a dog. What *other* beast would make a noise like that?"

T: "A man. A man-beast. A man-beast would make that noise."

W: "..."

T: "I feel like this conversation is something that would happen in a blog. Not in real life. Like, you'd read about this conversation we just had online somewhere, and say it was funny, but say there's no way in hell that it actually happened like that. But it totally did."

[[HUUAARRGHUGHHHH!!!!]]

T: "...There's no way that's a dog."

W: "It's a dog."

[[HUUAARRGHUGHHHH!!!!]]

T: "...I have to tell Patty about this."

And now it is a conversation that happened in a blog but in real life thinking it was inside a blog within a blog inside a dream inside a dream inside the Matrix inside a dream.

INCEPTION BLOG.

St. Patrick's Day: A Rant

It's Saint Patrick's Day, and people should be celebrating with green beer, Shepherd's pie, step-dancing, and massive hangovers.

This holiday is awesome, and being Catholic and being named after St. Patrick, it used to involve my grandparents sending me money every year.

Relative: You have a name!  And that name happens to sound somewhat like the patron saint of Ireland!  Here's five bucks.

Me:  Thanks, Grandma!

But there's one thing that really corns my beef.  The shortening of the name of the holiday.

Listen here, you awful spellers of the world:  It is Saint PaDDy's Day, not Patty's Day.

Paddy is the male nickname for Patrick.  Patty is my name.  Last time I checked, I am not a dude.  Hold on.  (*Checks*)  Nope.  Still not a dude.

So please.  Stop spelling the holiday wrong.  Once I am Supreme Overlord of the World, I will have my own holiday that will be PaTTy's Day, and it will not be associated with this majestic Irish holiday.  Even though St. Patrick was actually Italian.  Or Welsh.  Or something.

*Cue rainbow* The more you know!

It's All Greek to Me.

Shut Up, Delilah.

Make no mistake, everyone.  You read that title right.  Delilah.  I didn’t mean Shellie (Shelilah). Although Shellie does need to shut up. I mean, just look at her face.

                                                                God, just shut up already. 

Anyway, this is the story of a horrible radio talk show. And a horrible radio talk show host. Delilah.

She’s got one of those would-be soothing voices if she didn’t make your cheeks clench just by saying the word "hello."  She comes on at exactly 7:00pm every night.  I know it is exactly 7:00 pm because she likes to interrupt the only time they play decent music with her annoying theme song that consists solely of her name being sung with chimes by a very effeminate man from 1983.

 

The point of her show is to fill the airwaves with sappy stories and reminders to eat at Olive Garden and drink Earl Grey that otherwise would be filled with decent radio.

One of her favorite pastimes, especially during the holidays, is to take callers who have a really loving or tragic story to share with the city. Now, this is okay. I mean, it’s not exactly my cup of ginseng-infused herbal tea, but I respect these people and their experiences. But Delilah. . . She. . .ahem. . .

 

These poor people are bearing their souls to this woman. I mean, come on!

And this is why every time her stupid yoga-voice comes on el radio, Shellie and I have the same reaction:

 If only she would listen.

Uh. . .

. . . . . .

Sorry.