The Most Dreaded Season Starts

Happy Thanksgiving

so anyway, I was officially "off the clock" and able to start the holiday weekend at 10:17 PM this evening. I left the office at 3-ish, but had family / household duties and I had to finish the brakes on the WindStar.

On Monday, I'll use my Stoopid Business contacts to find out who signed off on the rear brake design for the WindStar, drive into Dearborn, and whip their ass with a car antenna.

As far as the "most dreaded" business: I loathe this time of year. Artificial cheer was never big on my list; the weather sucks; and the forced associations with people with whom I wouldn't cross the street to piss on if they were on fire really rankles me. Manufactured holidays, cut from whole cloth and mass produced and rammed down your throat.

Thank you, no.

No, I'll take The Fourth of July over any of the "Hallmark" holidays. It's the only holiday celebrated on the date it actually happened, and frankly the only one that really matters.

Perhaps my Seasonal Affective Disorder has kicked in early this year. I'm usually not this pissy until the middle of December.

But that's not why I logged in to Blogger this evening. From the WayBack File, I offer this gem: Drinking. Like they said, I so wish I'd have written this. A taste:

We drink because if we have to endure one more Friday afternoon meeting, we might just projectile vomit in Kevin's glandular, gnome like face. Just because you
don't have a life doesn't mean the rest of us want to sit down at 4:45 on a Friday to discuss the company's direction for Q3. You see Jeff's left eye twitching? I'd give this meeting another 3 minutes before he reaches across the table and pulls one of your ears off, Kev. The man's in a custody battle for his children and you're taking time away from his weekend with them because you're a selfish, horrible man. And if Jeff doesn't blow, you can bet your ass Mitch, the North West sales manager will. I swear that guy starts off cooking some chicken by biting their heads off. Do you hear his unending finger tapping on the faux-marble table? Notice how the pace quickens every few minutes? Well Kev, you've got a few more seconds of being a bullsh1t blowhard until Mitch pulls your heart of your f'ing chest.

We drink because there's no such thing as a good week of work.

It's like "Office Space" meets the Stoopid Business.

Late, tired. The song remains the same....