Friday, September 13, 2002

Well, here are some of the ravings the title seems to promise.

I’m in a mood today.

I’m frustrated. Pissed. By everything. I’m frustrated by a marriage that I no longer want to be a part of. I’m frustrated about finding things way too late in the game. I’m frustrated by morons who anoint themselves to the ruling class.

I’m pissed off at the bus driver who pulled right the hell out in front of me this morning. If I’d hit her dumb ass I’d be on the news as the guy who slammed into a school bus.

I hear rumors of a war on terrorism. Haven’t seen much solid evidence of one, but I hear persistent rumors. They arrested five guys in Baltimore yesterday. Two Pakistanis, two Afghans and a Somali. They were living with eight other Middle Eastern men. The reason for the arrests was visa violations, but in the apartment they found a computer with fake ID making equipment, another computer with links to flight training web sites and a bunch of Arabic literature on Jihad. Well, by afternoon some idiot judge had released two of them and a third was awaiting an interpreter for his hearing. We are, without a doubt, the dumbest people on this planet.

Ted Kennedy’s dog assaulted an electrician in the Capitol building the other day. Because of this we now know the name of the dog. “Splash”. Nice, Teddie. Real damn funny. While you prance, bloated and whiskey besotted, around Washington, we all know what happened that night. Even the Massholes who keep reelecting you know about Mary Jo.

There are rumors Yassir Arafat might be stepping down. I guess he’s finding it too difficult to go out and murder Israelis with Colin Powell stuck by the lips to his ass.

Newspeople are whores. They report, breathlessly, that US Special Forces may already be operating in Iraq. Well, they probably are. But do we need our own newspeople telling Sodamn Insane that there might be US troops hiding in his abundant ass hair?

I’ve been involuntarily transferred from my R&D group to a process development group. Yet the R&D group still wants me around. Sometimes. I feel like a bastard at a family reunion. Like Dilbert, I keep my morale in a thimble.

Got a new guy in the next cubicle. Yeah, that’s right. Cubicle. Call me Milton. Just stay the hell away from my damn red Swingline stapler. Anyway, got a new guy. New guys are great fun to screw with. He avoids me now. He doesn’t know it, but there’s more in store for him. He still hasn’t experienced the exploding centrifuge tube. Or the wonderful world of liquid nitrogen.

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