No, I haven't been watching repeats of "Blossom". There seriously are no words:
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Friday, January 25, 2008
The New Girl
To put it simply, she's useless. She sits behind Jennie and mumbles into a phone all day long and occasionally gets "trained" by Him (See blog entitled "The Frighteningly Long Pinky Nail"). I use the word "trained" loosely because their conversations seem to go something like this:
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "How you say... this is... how to find? Oh... amount in receivables, you must call.. we get the check."
New Girl: "Uhhhh... what? I don't understand what your saying *mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "Such headache... you call... or.. something like that to how you say...yabba dabba doo"
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble ...I don't... uhh what?"
This fucking shit goes on from 9am till 1pm when she leaves for the day. When the phone rings, she looks at it. She fucking stares at it as if to decifer some code or alien language coming through the constant ringing. *RINGGGGGGG.... *RINGGGGGGG.... She stares... then looks back up at her computer screen *mumble *mumble *mumble .
It's so weird. Jennie even tells me that she sits there motionless... soundless... for HOURS. Is she even breathing? I even swear there's a strange smell coming from her purse.
Her new thing is the coffee pot. Now, there aren't many pleasures I get from this place, but if there's one thing (other than a liquid lunch) that I look forward to, it's my goddamned coffee. She INSISTS on brewing a fresh pot the second she comes in. She barely takes off her coat, when she bolts for the kitchen. This, of course, wouldn't be a problem if her coffee didn't taste un-fucking-believably bad. I'm dead serious. It tastes like a cup of roasted dick. It's foul, muddy, and not even watering it down and adding extra flavored creamer helps. Here's the best part - she doesn't even drink coffee!
Something tells me there's something she's putting in there that probably shouldn't BE in there. Yes, perhaps a little far fetched, but all in all completely plausible. I drank a cup today solely because its about 35 degrees in here (that's another story). As a result of ingesting this sludge, I'll probably end up growing hair in places no hair should be growing. Oh well... I've got a razor.
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "How you say... this is... how to find? Oh... amount in receivables, you must call.. we get the check."
New Girl: "Uhhhh... what? I don't understand what your saying *mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "Such headache... you call... or.. something like that to how you say...yabba dabba doo"
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble ...I don't... uhh what?"
This fucking shit goes on from 9am till 1pm when she leaves for the day. When the phone rings, she looks at it. She fucking stares at it as if to decifer some code or alien language coming through the constant ringing. *RINGGGGGGG.... *RINGGGGGGG.... She stares... then looks back up at her computer screen *mumble *mumble *mumble .
It's so weird. Jennie even tells me that she sits there motionless... soundless... for HOURS. Is she even breathing? I even swear there's a strange smell coming from her purse.
Her new thing is the coffee pot. Now, there aren't many pleasures I get from this place, but if there's one thing (other than a liquid lunch) that I look forward to, it's my goddamned coffee. She INSISTS on brewing a fresh pot the second she comes in. She barely takes off her coat, when she bolts for the kitchen. This, of course, wouldn't be a problem if her coffee didn't taste un-fucking-believably bad. I'm dead serious. It tastes like a cup of roasted dick. It's foul, muddy, and not even watering it down and adding extra flavored creamer helps. Here's the best part - she doesn't even drink coffee!
Something tells me there's something she's putting in there that probably shouldn't BE in there. Yes, perhaps a little far fetched, but all in all completely plausible. I drank a cup today solely because its about 35 degrees in here (that's another story). As a result of ingesting this sludge, I'll probably end up growing hair in places no hair should be growing. Oh well... I've got a razor.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Balls
It was bound to happen, and I wasn't even the first. Countless tales of masseuses, yoga teachers, former employees, prophylactics strewn throughout the office. A good two weeks have passed since the incident, so I feel I now have the stomach to recount the ordeal in as much detail as I can muster without vomiting. It was 9am and there was a sign outside the office door saying "Yoga Practice till 9:20". Irritated, I waited in the front office and made coffee for myself. About five minutes later the yoga teacher walks in to get water from the cooler. Now, I assume then that the practice is over so I walk on back, say hello, and proceed to my desk. (It's a railroad office so I have to go through my boss' office to get to my own.) Then I see him sitting on the floor, legs crossed, in a pair of skimpy powder blue short-shorts.
Yeah.....
So, I apologize, excuse myself, and turn around to head back up front.
"Hey Alf! Check this out, she's gonna torture me. You've got to see this pose."
Now, I can't tell you how much of my morning coffee had already backed up at at this point. I stopped and said "That's ok. I'll just wait up front 'till you're done."
"No Alf, you've GOT to see this. She's gonna torture me - you'll love it."
I have to admit, the thought of him in pain did intrigue me, so I briefly turned around. The yoga teacher grabs the cup of water, which I mistakenly thought was for her to drink. Oh no... it had become lubricant. She rubbed his shoulders and forearms, then his thighs and calves with the water. He sits indian-style and proceeds to put each arms through his crossed legs then wrap them back up and around to the opposite arm. If you're having trouble visualizing this - just imagine a wet unbaked pretzel with a tuft of curly grey hair in front... only the top of the pretzel is a head and at the bottom - a crotch. He's now locked in position. The yoga teacher then grabs his shoulders with both hands and proceeds to roll his body around the mat like a fucking beach ball! I'm not even kidding. She started rolling him forward, backward, back and forth and he's all knotted up like a roll of fucking yarn. Is this a normal yoga practice? Does one have to sign a waiver before attempting something like this? I watch this entire scene play out in utter shock. Joe glances at my face and loses it. He starts laughing and she stops playing "ball" for a moment. She stops him with his torso facing me, he lets one leg loose and BLOOP! There it is. My boss' left testicle in all its glory. (Note: "Bloop", in my head, is the sound that a nut makes when hitting the floor - sort of like when one retrieves a power pellet playing PacMan.) I'm not going to elaborate, but I will say this. If ever anyone out there reading this comes into several million dollars at some point in there life, or perhaps not... if anyone out there never sees that kind of money and ends up selling carnations on a highway off-ramp, please... for the love of God.... trim. Surely this man has enough money to have someone do it for him if he's physically incapable of doing it himself. That's all I'm leaving you with.
I immediately turned away and told him I'd wait up front. He was still laughing when I closed the door and walked up front barely able to blink. It's not like this was his first show. He flashed his furry gonads to a coworker about 3 years ago during a photoshoot - I can guarantee she still hasn't fully recovered.
I haven't.
Yeah.....
So, I apologize, excuse myself, and turn around to head back up front.
"Hey Alf! Check this out, she's gonna torture me. You've got to see this pose."
Now, I can't tell you how much of my morning coffee had already backed up at at this point. I stopped and said "That's ok. I'll just wait up front 'till you're done."
"No Alf, you've GOT to see this. She's gonna torture me - you'll love it."
I have to admit, the thought of him in pain did intrigue me, so I briefly turned around. The yoga teacher grabs the cup of water, which I mistakenly thought was for her to drink. Oh no... it had become lubricant. She rubbed his shoulders and forearms, then his thighs and calves with the water. He sits indian-style and proceeds to put each arms through his crossed legs then wrap them back up and around to the opposite arm. If you're having trouble visualizing this - just imagine a wet unbaked pretzel with a tuft of curly grey hair in front... only the top of the pretzel is a head and at the bottom - a crotch. He's now locked in position. The yoga teacher then grabs his shoulders with both hands and proceeds to roll his body around the mat like a fucking beach ball! I'm not even kidding. She started rolling him forward, backward, back and forth and he's all knotted up like a roll of fucking yarn. Is this a normal yoga practice? Does one have to sign a waiver before attempting something like this? I watch this entire scene play out in utter shock. Joe glances at my face and loses it. He starts laughing and she stops playing "ball" for a moment. She stops him with his torso facing me, he lets one leg loose and BLOOP! There it is. My boss' left testicle in all its glory. (Note: "Bloop", in my head, is the sound that a nut makes when hitting the floor - sort of like when one retrieves a power pellet playing PacMan.) I'm not going to elaborate, but I will say this. If ever anyone out there reading this comes into several million dollars at some point in there life, or perhaps not... if anyone out there never sees that kind of money and ends up selling carnations on a highway off-ramp, please... for the love of God.... trim. Surely this man has enough money to have someone do it for him if he's physically incapable of doing it himself. That's all I'm leaving you with.
I immediately turned away and told him I'd wait up front. He was still laughing when I closed the door and walked up front barely able to blink. It's not like this was his first show. He flashed his furry gonads to a coworker about 3 years ago during a photoshoot - I can guarantee she still hasn't fully recovered.
I haven't.
Friday, January 4, 2008
It's been a while...
It has. And why I've decided to blog now when I can barely feel my fucking fingertips - I don't know. (It's about 20 degrees outside - maybe 25 in here.) So our company offices are moving to midtown in the next 3 weeks or so. If nothing else, it'll be a nice change of scenery. Mainly because the "scenery" that exists here consists of used sexual paraphernalia on the floor and in coffee mugs, and a creepy little employee with horrific hygiene.
Is it wrong that my main concern is what kind of food is available in the area? I've become accustomed to the Upper West Side, as much as I've complained about what actually IS available to eat here. For some reason, I find a restaurant that has great food, at decent prices, and the motherfuckers close on me within a year! Don't they know who I work for? Show a little compassion. My coworker Jennie and I found this place called the Silk Road Palace a few months back. Now don't let the name confuse you... it's far from a fucking palace. It's a small sea of tightly-packed, rickety little tables that are sometimes topped with some sort of residue, but all in all, not that bad. You walk inside and are greeted by one of three people. There's "Evil" (the angry skinny little woman with tight, thin lips who scowls at you when you order), "Wine Guy" ( the delivery/busboy/wine poorer who has since become our best lunch friend), and "Tranny". Tranny is a cross between a little hard-working boy, and... well... a small set of breasts. She takes your order, usually is at the register when you leave, and basically is helpful only when you need more soy sauce. You do not ask Evil for soy sauce. We've seen her get very upset with customers who complain about food or want extra anything. She'll stand over them and if you look very very closely, you'll see tiny horns peek out of her temples when she's particularly angry. The Silk Road Palace is usually filled with very old men and women.... and then there's us. We order the same thing every time, for the most part, so we try and make the visit as pleasant as possible without upsetting the beast. Did I mention the main reason we go there is you get a free carafe of wine with your lunch special? Oh yes... it's advertised as 1 free carafe of wine per customer, per meal. Wine Guy gives us 4! He usually grins at us when we come in.. like there's something "special" in the wine he's serving, but we don't care... we go back to work good and buzzed, and had a great-tasting greasy chinese lunch to go with it.
Lately, I've become concerned. We went into Silk Road as usual, and were seated. Evil comes to our table and says 2 beef chow fun, spring rolls, scallion pancake, no rice right? Then...... she SMILED at me. Jennie's eyes pretty much said it all. Now, it wasn't that she had major dental issues that would have normally frightened away a hungry customer, but it was that the smile had this sinister "I'm going to put you in tomorrow's spring roll if you say another word" effect. It made us both extremely uncomfortable - the smile AND the fact that she remembered what we order. Wine Guy gave us more wine and I even got a smile on the way out. After months of going there, what would possess Evil to do this? She's actually YELLED at me before. Twice!
1. I had asked if we could have more chow fun noodles instead of the rice that comes with it. I thought she didnt understand me when she said "uhh.. no comes with rice", so I repeated myself, and I got a very stern NO, accompanied by an "I will gouge your eyeball out with my teeth" look that made Jennie want to leave.
2. The next time, I tried to pay with a credit card.... for the second time. Yes, ok my fault. I was told the first time I went that they didn't take credit card, but I had forgotten... maybe it was the wine. So I put the card on the table. "AY! CASH ONLY!", she shouts from across the room. I cowered in the corner and sifted through my pockets to find the cash.
In short, I don't know what her deal is. Maybe she knows we're leaving the neighborhood and there will be no more Fun to be had. Jennie and I generally talk about how much we hate our jobs, and often how much her service sucks while we're there for the hour. Oh, I love Fun. Fun and wine is what gets me through a typical Sporn week. That and watching Jennie get busted for coming back to work shit-faced and flushed. Joe will tell her, "Wow, it's smells like alcohol in here... have you been drinking?" Jennie looks confused, "Ummm, no why?" I love it. Hopefully midtown will have it's own version of Fun. Something tells me it's a lost cause. Maybe I can convince my boss to hire Wine Guy. He's hard-working, foreign, heavy handed, it's perfect... maybe he cleans mugs too.
Is it wrong that my main concern is what kind of food is available in the area? I've become accustomed to the Upper West Side, as much as I've complained about what actually IS available to eat here. For some reason, I find a restaurant that has great food, at decent prices, and the motherfuckers close on me within a year! Don't they know who I work for? Show a little compassion. My coworker Jennie and I found this place called the Silk Road Palace a few months back. Now don't let the name confuse you... it's far from a fucking palace. It's a small sea of tightly-packed, rickety little tables that are sometimes topped with some sort of residue, but all in all, not that bad. You walk inside and are greeted by one of three people. There's "Evil" (the angry skinny little woman with tight, thin lips who scowls at you when you order), "Wine Guy" ( the delivery/busboy/wine poorer who has since become our best lunch friend), and "Tranny". Tranny is a cross between a little hard-working boy, and... well... a small set of breasts. She takes your order, usually is at the register when you leave, and basically is helpful only when you need more soy sauce. You do not ask Evil for soy sauce. We've seen her get very upset with customers who complain about food or want extra anything. She'll stand over them and if you look very very closely, you'll see tiny horns peek out of her temples when she's particularly angry. The Silk Road Palace is usually filled with very old men and women.... and then there's us. We order the same thing every time, for the most part, so we try and make the visit as pleasant as possible without upsetting the beast. Did I mention the main reason we go there is you get a free carafe of wine with your lunch special? Oh yes... it's advertised as 1 free carafe of wine per customer, per meal. Wine Guy gives us 4! He usually grins at us when we come in.. like there's something "special" in the wine he's serving, but we don't care... we go back to work good and buzzed, and had a great-tasting greasy chinese lunch to go with it.
Lately, I've become concerned. We went into Silk Road as usual, and were seated. Evil comes to our table and says 2 beef chow fun, spring rolls, scallion pancake, no rice right? Then...... she SMILED at me. Jennie's eyes pretty much said it all. Now, it wasn't that she had major dental issues that would have normally frightened away a hungry customer, but it was that the smile had this sinister "I'm going to put you in tomorrow's spring roll if you say another word" effect. It made us both extremely uncomfortable - the smile AND the fact that she remembered what we order. Wine Guy gave us more wine and I even got a smile on the way out. After months of going there, what would possess Evil to do this? She's actually YELLED at me before. Twice!
1. I had asked if we could have more chow fun noodles instead of the rice that comes with it. I thought she didnt understand me when she said "uhh.. no comes with rice", so I repeated myself, and I got a very stern NO, accompanied by an "I will gouge your eyeball out with my teeth" look that made Jennie want to leave.
2. The next time, I tried to pay with a credit card.... for the second time. Yes, ok my fault. I was told the first time I went that they didn't take credit card, but I had forgotten... maybe it was the wine. So I put the card on the table. "AY! CASH ONLY!", she shouts from across the room. I cowered in the corner and sifted through my pockets to find the cash.
In short, I don't know what her deal is. Maybe she knows we're leaving the neighborhood and there will be no more Fun to be had. Jennie and I generally talk about how much we hate our jobs, and often how much her service sucks while we're there for the hour. Oh, I love Fun. Fun and wine is what gets me through a typical Sporn week. That and watching Jennie get busted for coming back to work shit-faced and flushed. Joe will tell her, "Wow, it's smells like alcohol in here... have you been drinking?" Jennie looks confused, "Ummm, no why?" I love it. Hopefully midtown will have it's own version of Fun. Something tells me it's a lost cause. Maybe I can convince my boss to hire Wine Guy. He's hard-working, foreign, heavy handed, it's perfect... maybe he cleans mugs too.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Frighteningly Long Pinky Nail
SPORK or DEADLY WEAPON?
Either way, the fucking thing should be outlawed. It's vile, disgusting, unnecessary, and I skeeve them in the worst way. I was in a local grocery store near my job and came across a little troll of a man in front of me sifting through the change in his palm with this rigoddamndicuously long nail. I nearly shat, then had a flashback.......
I work with this guy who has this long overgrown nail (about a good 1 1/2 inches now) and I can't stand to be near it. Not all of his nails, just the pinky. He's known for blowin' up the bathroom just about every morning, so of course this raises all sorts of questions about cleanliness and hygeine. That thing has no doubt been used to scratch, probe, pick, rub, tickle, touch, and finagle it's way into every orifice he can find. However, last year was the breaking point for me. I had brought in an Entenmann's Raspberry Danish loaf thingy and wanted to leave some for the rest of the office to share... emphasis on the some - mmmmmmmmm danish. Shit, I digress, but ok I buy the danish and get my first piece. A good few hours go buy and I notice most of it is gone. Now, I had my piece so I'm ok with it. I ask around if anyone wants the last piece. Everyone's had enough so I go into the supply closet to get myself another plate. Now the rest of this happens in slow motion for me:
I glance to my right, and see the man approaching....... I gust of wind as he takes him hand from his right pocket and extends it out towards the danish. Then a CLACK!......... the nail hits the foil pan in the bottom of the box and scrapes it's way down toward the last piece, carrying every bit of crumb, raspberry, and debris with it.... WHOOSH! His hand it whisked up in one fluid motion and the Spork from Hell empties the debris in his mouth like a fucking dumptruck. I quickly turned away, threw the plate back in the closet and went back to my desk. I think I made several phone calls afterward trying to figure out how one thinks doing something like that is OK. I mean, he might as well have dropped his pants and tea-bagged my cup of coffee at the same time. Ugh. In summation, the Fingerspork should be illegal and all growers should have their pinky-nail beds surgically removed and be subjected to prison time in a maximum security facility...
Who's with me?
Either way, the fucking thing should be outlawed. It's vile, disgusting, unnecessary, and I skeeve them in the worst way. I was in a local grocery store near my job and came across a little troll of a man in front of me sifting through the change in his palm with this rigoddamndicuously long nail. I nearly shat, then had a flashback.......
I work with this guy who has this long overgrown nail (about a good 1 1/2 inches now) and I can't stand to be near it. Not all of his nails, just the pinky. He's known for blowin' up the bathroom just about every morning, so of course this raises all sorts of questions about cleanliness and hygeine. That thing has no doubt been used to scratch, probe, pick, rub, tickle, touch, and finagle it's way into every orifice he can find. However, last year was the breaking point for me. I had brought in an Entenmann's Raspberry Danish loaf thingy and wanted to leave some for the rest of the office to share... emphasis on the some - mmmmmmmmm danish. Shit, I digress, but ok I buy the danish and get my first piece. A good few hours go buy and I notice most of it is gone. Now, I had my piece so I'm ok with it. I ask around if anyone wants the last piece. Everyone's had enough so I go into the supply closet to get myself another plate. Now the rest of this happens in slow motion for me:
I glance to my right, and see the man approaching....... I gust of wind as he takes him hand from his right pocket and extends it out towards the danish. Then a CLACK!......... the nail hits the foil pan in the bottom of the box and scrapes it's way down toward the last piece, carrying every bit of crumb, raspberry, and debris with it.... WHOOSH! His hand it whisked up in one fluid motion and the Spork from Hell empties the debris in his mouth like a fucking dumptruck. I quickly turned away, threw the plate back in the closet and went back to my desk. I think I made several phone calls afterward trying to figure out how one thinks doing something like that is OK. I mean, he might as well have dropped his pants and tea-bagged my cup of coffee at the same time. Ugh. In summation, the Fingerspork should be illegal and all growers should have their pinky-nail beds surgically removed and be subjected to prison time in a maximum security facility...
Who's with me?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Who I LOATHE!
I'm not even sure if loathe is the right word... Hate? Abhor? Despise? Detest? Want to see beaten in an alley with metal pipes by a gang of Crips? Yes, him.... Wayne Fucking Brady. I can't even pinpoint how the hatred started but it's done everything but go away. His voice, his seemingly endless forehead, his need to sing random words when having a normal conversation... all of it. Now the douche hosts yet another primetime television show just to torment me.
He's an arrogant dick, he sucks, and I'm starting a petition.
To be continued.........
He's an arrogant dick, he sucks, and I'm starting a petition.
To be continued.........
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
'P' Day
If given the opportunity, I highly recommend a stint at the luxurious Queens County Criminal Courthouse. Not that I was surprised, but I've never seen a larger congregation of fucking losers in my life. I take that back. Alleged losers... as I was now one of them. I put on a button-down shirt, pants, and shoes which apparently made me feel as if I had just showed up to a Wu-Tang concert in a tux. I get ushered through metal detectors, down an elevator, through a corridor, to a series of court room doors. When asked, I'm told to go to room 3. I walk into the courtroom and it's completely packed full of criminals. I'd say about 80% of which had to utilize one of the 4 interpreters in the front of the courtroom. There were people summoned for "riding a bicycle on the sidewalk", "vandalism", "disorderly conduct" (FYI they call it DisCon...ya' learn something everyday, people), "possession of unidentified species of animal", "possession of porgies out of season". It was fucking retarded. Ever see the decrepid little people in the subway chanting DVD DVD DVD DVD, trying to sell you some shitty bootleg? Yeh, she was there. She didn't have a license and apparently was a little too spread out on the sidewalk that day. I forget the fine she was handed down, but something even more horrifying occured to me. They first announced her name, let's call her Bertha, then her crime, then they asked how Bertha pleads and determines the fine if she pleads guilty. Yes, they ANNOUNCE the crime. Now I'm seated in the far back of the courtroom, and have to wait until everyone else in there had been called. Yes, and waiting to hear exactly how the words "Alphonso Delaney - Urinating in Public" rolled off the officer's tongue. It was an excrutiating wait, until the Ghetto Girls showed up and sat next to me. They were the biggest heaps of unshowered shit I've ever seen, complete with torn dirty t-shirts and what looked like Cross Color pants. I was extremely overdressed, which didn't help matters any, and I have these two fuckin winners next to me trying to strike up a conversation.
Ok, long story short... they call "Alphonso Delaney... Urinating in Public" (Not "violation of health code"). Random muffled chuckles were heard on my way down the LONG fucking aisle up to the Judge. $50. That's what I'm ordered to pay. I exit the courtroom, and catch the dirty girls smiling - one waived goodbye to me.... I needed a shower.
As IF my day coudn't get any worse:
I'm leaving the courthouse and just as I thought my day couldn't get ANY worse, I can't find my car. I'm going up and down the streets in the rain, cold, wet, and frantic. I realize EXACTLY where I had parked and there was a hideous yellow car in it's place. Un-FUCKING-believable. My first thought is: This was my last month of car payments, and what do I get... a stolen car? I immediately call 911 and they dispatch a car to me...20 minutes later. He tells me since there was no broken glass, the chances are it was towed. However, I parked in a completetly legal spot, so he said I had about a 50/50 shot. Great. Thanks. Einstein with a fuckin badge. So Enstein gets on the horn and calls wherever one calls to retrieve a towed vehicle. In short, my car was towed away, and I have to pay a RIDICULOUS towing fee as well as fines and all other kinds of other shit.
I had to take 3 buses and eventually arrived home an hour and half later. (By car, it would have taken 20-30 minutes) I'm waiting at home for an oven to be installed, LIVID, and realizing I had to fedex a package that night for work. Needless to say, that never happened... Ugh, if anyone knows of a person with worse luck than me, please feel free to inform me. I have yet to meet them. Well, it's time to open the company fridge and pull out the wine....and remember. Next time you decide to piss in public, just go in your pants... it's a little uncomfortable, maybe a little smelly, but trust me.. the shower will be much better than the HELL you'll endure in a Queens County Court.
Ok, long story short... they call "Alphonso Delaney... Urinating in Public" (Not "violation of health code"). Random muffled chuckles were heard on my way down the LONG fucking aisle up to the Judge. $50. That's what I'm ordered to pay. I exit the courtroom, and catch the dirty girls smiling - one waived goodbye to me.... I needed a shower.
As IF my day coudn't get any worse:
I'm leaving the courthouse and just as I thought my day couldn't get ANY worse, I can't find my car. I'm going up and down the streets in the rain, cold, wet, and frantic. I realize EXACTLY where I had parked and there was a hideous yellow car in it's place. Un-FUCKING-believable. My first thought is: This was my last month of car payments, and what do I get... a stolen car? I immediately call 911 and they dispatch a car to me...20 minutes later. He tells me since there was no broken glass, the chances are it was towed. However, I parked in a completetly legal spot, so he said I had about a 50/50 shot. Great. Thanks. Einstein with a fuckin badge. So Enstein gets on the horn and calls wherever one calls to retrieve a towed vehicle. In short, my car was towed away, and I have to pay a RIDICULOUS towing fee as well as fines and all other kinds of other shit.
I had to take 3 buses and eventually arrived home an hour and half later. (By car, it would have taken 20-30 minutes) I'm waiting at home for an oven to be installed, LIVID, and realizing I had to fedex a package that night for work. Needless to say, that never happened... Ugh, if anyone knows of a person with worse luck than me, please feel free to inform me. I have yet to meet them. Well, it's time to open the company fridge and pull out the wine....and remember. Next time you decide to piss in public, just go in your pants... it's a little uncomfortable, maybe a little smelly, but trust me.. the shower will be much better than the HELL you'll endure in a Queens County Court.
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