Alas, Poor Meep-Meep, We Knew Him Well
So, decided earlier this week that I would rename ChronicSmoker Meep-Meep, and for more than just the obvious reasons. Well, all right. Not really. Calling a dood Meep-Meep makes me laugh my ass off every fucking time I think of it. Sometimes I say it out loud, then start howling with laughter. More than one person has already looked at me funny, but I don't care. Calling a guy Meep-Meep is fucking hilarious. You might not think so, but then again, you are not me, and this is my blog. MEEP-MEEP. MEEP-MEEEE-MEEEEEEP.
As to why poor Meep-Meep, well, it's simple.
At the end of this week, there will only be one Retard from Express Personnel, and that retard is me. And once 60 more days is done, I will no longer be a retard from Express, but a gomer from the packing plant instead. Yep. That's right. My most supreme and sublime magnifence in learning how to fill bags and put them through a heat sealer (this is something any chimp from NASA could do, and I really do mean chimpanzees) has garnered me employment. A direct result of my continued awesome-osity is the removal of Meep-Meep from my personal space.
Why is this important?
I am not a friendly person unless you have something I want. I mean, come on, I am incredibly polite and nice to people who work at the places where I buy things from, and for a few reasons. One being that I don't want a 'dipper' (someone sticking their finger in my coffee) and the other being that I am a shameless flirt. If it was the 70's, I'd be the guy in the velour shirt open to my navel trying to lick my eyebrows suggestively. Unless you are in a position to give me what I need (friendship, nudity, well made coffee beverages), you should probably avoid me. I learned the cold shoulder on the beggar-filled alleys of Vancouver, and once you've been hit with my look of disdain, you might not recover. My unapproachability is only magnified before and after work.
Meep-Meep and I share the same bus route. This does not please me, nor has it ever pleased me. Your garden variety nutbag realizes that a person with headphones on playing speed metal (Rob Zombie, Godsmack, Disturbed, etc) on his MP3 loud enough to startle small children in Indonesia is someone who doesn't want to talk. To anyone. Meep-Meep, on the other hand, is not your garden variety whackjob. So I pulled out the big guns. I started reading and listening to the headphones.
This does not work. Meep-Meep is fundamentally incapable of realizing that, probably 'cuz he's insane. Nor has he copped to the fact that the process of marking my place in the book, pausing my headphones, and removing one of them so that I can hear him takes longer than his inane comments do to make it past his toothless gums. And then I have to replace the headphone, turn the music back on, then find my place again. All for him to shout "MEEP-MEEP-MEEEEmeep".
So, at the end of the week, Meep-Meep's tenure will come to a thankful close and I will be free to be the cantankerous SOB I was born to be.
Fare the well, Meep-Meep, and wear your teeth, because the sight of you gumming a sandwich will be with me always.
And I do mean always.
As to why poor Meep-Meep, well, it's simple.
At the end of this week, there will only be one Retard from Express Personnel, and that retard is me. And once 60 more days is done, I will no longer be a retard from Express, but a gomer from the packing plant instead. Yep. That's right. My most supreme and sublime magnifence in learning how to fill bags and put them through a heat sealer (this is something any chimp from NASA could do, and I really do mean chimpanzees) has garnered me employment. A direct result of my continued awesome-osity is the removal of Meep-Meep from my personal space.
Why is this important?
I am not a friendly person unless you have something I want. I mean, come on, I am incredibly polite and nice to people who work at the places where I buy things from, and for a few reasons. One being that I don't want a 'dipper' (someone sticking their finger in my coffee) and the other being that I am a shameless flirt. If it was the 70's, I'd be the guy in the velour shirt open to my navel trying to lick my eyebrows suggestively. Unless you are in a position to give me what I need (friendship, nudity, well made coffee beverages), you should probably avoid me. I learned the cold shoulder on the beggar-filled alleys of Vancouver, and once you've been hit with my look of disdain, you might not recover. My unapproachability is only magnified before and after work.
Meep-Meep and I share the same bus route. This does not please me, nor has it ever pleased me. Your garden variety nutbag realizes that a person with headphones on playing speed metal (Rob Zombie, Godsmack, Disturbed, etc) on his MP3 loud enough to startle small children in Indonesia is someone who doesn't want to talk. To anyone. Meep-Meep, on the other hand, is not your garden variety whackjob. So I pulled out the big guns. I started reading and listening to the headphones.
This does not work. Meep-Meep is fundamentally incapable of realizing that, probably 'cuz he's insane. Nor has he copped to the fact that the process of marking my place in the book, pausing my headphones, and removing one of them so that I can hear him takes longer than his inane comments do to make it past his toothless gums. And then I have to replace the headphone, turn the music back on, then find my place again. All for him to shout "MEEP-MEEP-MEEEEmeep".
So, at the end of the week, Meep-Meep's tenure will come to a thankful close and I will be free to be the cantankerous SOB I was born to be.
Fare the well, Meep-Meep, and wear your teeth, because the sight of you gumming a sandwich will be with me always.
And I do mean always.
posted by Unknown @ 7:09 PM
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