I blame it all on the monkeys

One night, not that long ago, the Mrs. was watching a show on PBS. She never watches PBS but there was nothing else on and we don’t have cable in the bedroom.

This occurred during a time in her life when she was half heartedly looking for another job. She had not only interviewed for another job, but been accepted and offered quite a bit more money.

But, as we all know, change makes everyone a bit uneasy, and she could not sleep that night because she was uneasy over the potential changes in her life. She was trying to distract herself with mindless entertainment and incidentally keeping me up as well.

The show that happened to be on was a documentary about the chimps that were once used as experimental animals in the space program and what happened to them after they were replaced by humans.

It was a very sad show. Some of the things that were done to these animals were just inexcusable. I don’t think that the scientists involved were evil, just single minded and determined to prove that they were smart enough to be called rocket scientists.

The show told of rehabilitation and relocation programs for the chimps and how difficult it can be to deal with insane and insecure animals that are stronger than you are and often quite angry.

It was all very touching. The Mrs. cried. She then decided that she would not take the new job because she wanted to remain where she would be helping animals.

So in the Trollhouse, when one does not act on an opportunity, we blame it all on the chimps.

(Just to end this story on a happy note, she not only stayed with the job helping animals, but is now making at least as much as she would have at the job she turned down.)

Selling the future

I have learned over the years that we, as parental units, are willing to put ourselves deeply into debt to provide for our children. We sell our futures to provide for their education, health, well being, or maybe even just a car.

Then they are willing to piss it all away for popularity or a cheap thrill.

I read somewhere that you should not handicap your children’s future by making their life easy. I agree and think that I probably should have done even less for all the children in my life than I actually did.

Remember this, Mommies, when your giggling little bundles of joy grow into young adults and are contemplating selling you into white slavery to support a drug habit, or just asking you to bail them out of jail.

Hell, if you are smart you will remember this every time one of them asks for something as little as to borrow a few bucks for a date or gasoline.

Fuzzy Food

About seven years ago I started working for the company that I am working for now. They were hiring a lot of people at the time in order to finish a large job on time and would give just about anyone that could possibly be qualified a try.

There was one man that went to work with us that I will always remember. He was about half blind and always complained about how his body was just not up to the task of being alive.

On this particular job we were all required to eat outside of the building. Most of us would just go to our cars and eat alone and listen to the radio and exhibit other antisocial behaviors.

On one memorable lunch break, I saw him open his door and spit something on the ground. I really thought nothing of it at the time, but he did not return to work after lunch and questions were asked.

The next day when he returned he had a rather interesting story. He said that on his way to work the previous day he had bought a prepackaged sandwich at a convenience store and while he was eating it he tasted “Something fuzzy”. He then went to the hospital to have his stomach pumped because he was convinced that he had poisoned himself.

I thought that this whole thing was rather dramatic, but it got even better. Over the next week, he complained that he was just not feeling well and getting worse each day.

By the second week, he was a in the hospital again, vomiting blood and convinced he was on the road to his own death.

When he came back this time he claimed that the “Something fuzzy” was in fact a mold that took hold in his stomach and grew and grew until he was so sick that he was hospitalized.

I am not sure if I can believe this story, but it does make for a good tale in a dirty restaurant.

The lost weekend post

This would have been posted last weekend if I had the access that they said that I had;

Bah fucking humbug and other unflattering things.

The promised Internet access does not obtain. Promises by the management have fallen through and smiles were plastered on faces while lies were told through these same smiles.

We can’t log on here. We have pretty much sat under the antenna that is supposed to be providing service just to be denied and told in Microsoft speak that the service is just not there, no matter what people tell you.

So I imagine that somewhere, someone is thinking that I have been killed and my lifeless body dropped somewhere in the Southwest to be eaten by coyotes and other hungry wildlife. No such luck.

The lovely Mrs. Troll is not trying to have me declared legally dead in order to collect the vast amounts of life insurance she has taken out on me without my knowledge.

She has, in fact, told me that she intends to keep me, even if just for a short while or until she wins the lottery, whichever comes first.

Not yet dead and better for the experience

I have not been killed and stuffed in a hole.

Instead I was lied to and there was no Internet where we were staying.

Let me change that. There was internet access, but it was not working. The manager started telling me that someone was supposed to come and fix it last week, but blah, blah, blah, and I stopped listening.

So, I am back home from Pagosa Springs Colorado, safe and with a brand new relaxed attitude that will be gone as soon as I get to work tomorrow.

Where the hell am I ?

I think I am going somewhere today.

On this day, the Mrs. and I celebrate our 10^th wedding anniversary.

She has carefully planned a trip and simply refuses to tell me where we are going.

She even went so far as to pack for me so I would have no idea what to expect.

She does assure me that wherever we are going, it will have Internet access, so the next time I post I should be somewhere else.

(And if I do not post, then she has probably come to her senses and dropped me in some deep hole somewhere to die a horrible death because I am terrible at gifting or any one of a plethora of justifiable reasons for getting rid of me.)

Frankly, I am very glad that she has chosen to keep me for as long as she has.

Denial

I was denied the honor of watching Emo leave with his tail between his legs.

The powers-that-be decided to let him go and did not let me participate in any way, shape, or form.

I think they were afraid that I would do the “Happy Troll Piggy Dance”, right there in front of him, a thing that few have seen. (And a good thing, too.)

I will not deny that I did the dance, but it was done in the safety of my own home while no one was watching.

He was replaced by someone in possession of an even lower understanding of what the job entails.

More fun for me!!

EMOtive

I work with one man that just can’t stand for me to leave a room without engaging him in some kind of dialog.

If I just walk away he will yell my name over and over like a little kid that is not getting enough attention. Then, after he has said something really stupid, he wonders aloud why he engages me in dialog in the first place.

I wonder the same thing.

This man has the attention span and memory of a mayfly. You can tell him something three times and he will still get it wrong. “This is third floor. I want you to work on the third floor, right here. See this paper with your name on it hanging on the wall? I want you to work right here.”

Fifteen minutes later he was found on the fifth floor, looking lost, claiming he is looking for the room he was in before he went to the pisser.

And this same man tells me that he worked back East as a supervisor for years. I would not let this man supervise a day care for wayward cats.

But I will have the last laugh. When he is giving his best ‘deer in the headlights’ look upon learning that he is being dismissed I intend to be there, still gainfully employed, while he thinks that someone actually cares about whatever sob story he has this week or that his union will help him.

If you can’t beat ‘em, outlive ‘em.