Where I sit all day, just over my left shoulder in a cabinet, on a shelf is my box of bills.
You know those envelopes, that appear regularly in your mail, the ones for whom it seems to be the sole purpose for the continued life of your postal carrier. The constant reminder that your life, every waking moment, cost you something. I can almost hear it barking at me...anytime I take a pee break or stop for a moment and check an email..."HEY, YOU DOWN THERE, YOU NEED TO MAKE MORE MONEY. I'M TIRED OF BEING FULL ALL THE TIME!!" The Bill Box is the worst kind of boss...he is never satisfied no matter what I do, I will never be done.
I must spend an inordinate amount of time listening to messages on the phone that are designed to tell me something but achieve nothing more than wasting my time. The problem is they are telling me something I already know. Really, do I need to be given verbal instructions on how to leave a voice message. I think after 30 years of voice mail being around we all know to leave the message after the BEEP! Why is it necessary to give me a step by step guide...just get to the BEEP. And those messages that tell you you've dialed an incorrect or non-working number....PLEASE, just get to the point. I don't need the number read back to me, I don't need you giving me advise that if I think they are wrong and I'm right then I should double check the number...DUH...why the hell wouldn't I do that anyhow, especially if I think I'm right. I realize I most likely hit a wrong key. If I get it wrong twice, I'm pretty comfortable accepting I have a wrong number. And when I call for someone, and that someone is not there, as in they will never be there because it is the wrong number, don't waste my time asking who the FUCK I am...what the fuck does it matter, I've dialed the wrong number!
Okay...it's a bit "Punny" but it struck me when I heard this new anchor's pronunciation:
How many condoms does it take to establish a condemnation? I don't know, but I'm sure a lot of condoms have to come together.