kkktookmybabyaway

Yes for all of them.

Come on, all these n00bs want to do is find jobs and feed their families.

Here we go again.

Which of course means your post is riding the short bus with the rest of us. And get you bicycle helmet out of my face. And you do realize that in my last post I was talking about Smitty and not the Communist judge, right?

KKK's Top 103 Posters Number 80: The Franchise The Franchise: He’s one of those British people, and I don’t think he lives in one of the better neighborhoods across the Pond. However, he has seemed harmless enough, and we’ve even chatted a few times via AIM. Problem was our conversations were short-lived due to those wacky time zones; each time he AIM’d me it was time for me to leave work (and yes, that was the real reason). He seemed like a nice guy, but not nice enough for me to stay past my shift and gab with. • Rush, Rush, Rush, what am I ever going to do with you? I guess I should be grateful that you weren’t caught with Oxycontin. Oh well, I might as well get this one out of the way: “I always knew he was a member of the hard Right, but this is taking it a bit too far.” • The Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, in the midst of a design change, might drop the "Democrat" from its name. Hopefully, this won’t be the only Democrat in the region dropped this year -– Johnstown, Pa., is home to John Murtha. • I’ll tell you what. After listening to W. tear into the N.Y. Slimes for publishing a program that monitors international banking transactions, I wish he got pissed off every time he spoke in public. I can’t wait for the next terrorist attack to hit this country, if only to hear the Slimes and other Medium-Large Media allies wonder why the government didn't do more to gather up intel that could have prevented the attack. Better yet, hopefully Abdul will blow himself up inside the Gray Lady’s headquarters. • Oh for fuck’s sake. Let’s just ban cigarettes outright. I’m sick and tired of hearing how the slightest whiff of tobacco will kill me 60 years from now. Let’s ban smoking in all restaurants, because when I’m about to bite into my bacon cheeseburger with a side of seasoned fries I don’t want my health to be at risk because of some smoker across the eatery taking a puff off of his cancer stick. • Al Keiper and Vern Gagne mentioned in Al’s blog that the designated hitter position should be kept for All-Star games. Having spent about 4-5 seconds thinking about this topic, I think the DH rule should be used depending on where the All-Star game is being held. If the game is being played in an American League field, use the extra bat. If the game is held on a field from the Senior Circuit, make the pitchers earn their keep. Personally, I think the Designated Hitter is nothing more than a way to keep beefy ballplayers with bad knees from having to earn their paychecks out in the field, but that’s what you get with unions. While I’m on this subject, one thing that has to go is this hippie “the winning league at the All-Star game gets home-field advantage in the World Series.” All-Star games are meant to be an exhibition. If you really don’t want to have one of these contests run out of pitchers in extra innings, then don’t feel obligated to play every person on your roster within the course of nine innings. • Some guy could face jail time for writing "BULL (expletive) MONEY GRAB." On the memo line of a check he sent to pay for a parking fine? Crap. Every once in a while I write something stupid on my check’s memo line. Most of the time if I’m paying my local quarterly tax it’s usually something dumb like, “Making sure the Man doesn’t throw me in jail,” but there have been a few instances when I’ve been quite rude, especially when I was paying for some bullshit fee, service charge or hidden cost I was hit with. The worst, however, came in 2000 when I got screwed over on my state taxes and wrote on my check to the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, “So you Jew bastards can take even more of my hard-earned money.” It’s things like this that I look back on and realize if I ever decide to run for public office I wouldn’t last more than a week in the public spotlight.

He reminds me of someone who I would like to get a brick and smash it upside of his head. But he wouldn't die from the assault. Because that would be wrong.

My n*gga.

They're not as bad as those automatic hand dryers. Ugh.

Been there. Done that.

You'd still be overpaying for that Gauntlet game.

You mock law and order?

I fished a few times off the Gulf of Mexico -- I think the largest I ever caught was a 7-9 inch sea bass. Another time I was on this boat and this guy was trying to bring in a barracuda. He was fighting this fish tooth and nail, looking like he was ready to be thrown overboard. He then turns to me, a 8-9 year-old kid at the time, and asked if I wanted to take over. I think he wanted to use me as bait for even bigger fish so I declined.

If I gave you some anthrax to carry around, would you also make a stop at Hitlery's office? I froze, etc. You don't like anthrax? How about some pantera then? Any loud music to distract them from plotting their one-world-government plans would be fine with me. You thought I meant that other anthrax which kills people? Why, that would be wrong, not to mention a clear violation of forum rules.

I don't care about who is part of an All-Star game becuase it's just an exhibition. I might care if I was an athlete and I had in my contract a bonus for making this squad, but that's neither here nor there. What I think is really stupid is the whole "winner gets home field for the World Series." One thing that gets on my nerves is when talking heads whine about how someone should have made the All-Star team; there's a limited number of slots, you can't have every single big name make this team every single year.

I used to as a kid. I never would now.

The only good thing I'll say about the No Limit Soldiers is that Mark Madden wrote a column in a local newspaper pimping this abortion.

The cripple stool is the Cadillac of the pooping stools.

You know one of the things I love about the workplace? When you interview for a job, get a rundown of your duties and agree on a wage, only to discover that your employer neglected to inform you of the thirty other job responsibilities assigned to you. Better yet, they let you know of these newfound duties when whatever you’re responsible for breaks down. This happened to me the first time our office DSL service went kaput. You see, because I don’t fear computers (much), I’m the official IT guy. Of course, I didn’t learn of this until after the first time the DSL stopped working. Now, after many months of intensive study and rigorous training, I have developed a way to fix the many instances when our organization’s Internet setup goes haywire. You ready? Well, here’s what I do. I hope you’re sitting down for this. I unplug the modem. Wait a few seconds. Replug. That’s it. And I’m the only person capable of doing this. I swear to fucking Christ I don’t understand how our place stays in business. Whenever the Internet/e-mail is down for more than 30 seconds, I get a phone call saying, “OMG THE INTERNET IS DOWN~!” I then have to drop everything I’m doing, walk up two floors to the main office, unplug the fucking modem, wait a few seconds, and then replug it back in, all the while everyone else just sits there not having a fucking clue as of what to do. I’ve tried explaining to these people that every time I call Verizon DSL tech support, the first thing they tell me to do is unplug the modem and see if service gets kicked back on. EVERY FUCKING TIME I have had to call Verizon regarding this matter, this is what they tell me to do, and 99.9% of the time it has worked. When I ask why this happens, I don’t get a coherent answer. Of course, nobody else in our organization is capable to performing the technical magic I can. I have even offered to show people, free of charge, the complex task of UNPLUGGING AND REPLUGGING THE FUCKING MODEM. However, since this is “my job,” nobody else is able to shoulder this burden. The last time I called off work our precious Internet service went down during my absence. I heard the next day that the Internet service was down for more than FOUR HOURS, all because nobody bothered to UNPLUG AND REPLUG THE FUCKING MODEM. I guess I should feel grateful that I’m such a valuable part of the team, but trust me hearing “OMG THE INTERNET IS DOWN~!” and having to walk up two stories just to UNPLUG AND REPLUG A FUCKING MODEM can get a little tedious, especially when I have actual work that needs to be done. Why am I talking about this? Because this shit happened today. I was away from my office for about 45 minutes putting together a mass-mailing project. Now even though we have a midget who is supposed to be in charge of all postage matters, let’s just say I’ve learned to live by the saying of, “if you want a job done right do it yourself.” (And also because one time when he took several weeks to mail out something I needed sent ASAP due to the fact he was too fucking lazy to move a piece of equipment that weighed less than 10 lbs to get the thing that needed mailed, I was told to “go fuck myself.”) So there I was doing my thing, and after 45 minutes of work I went up to the third floor to weigh all the parcels I was sending out. Suddenly, I heard it. “OMG THE INTERNET IS DOWN~!” I was then informed that the Internet had been down for 40 MINUTES. I said that I’m already in the midst of another “crisis,” and that I can only handle one earth-shattering moment at a time. I promised that after I was done with what I was working on I’d get right onto the Internet catastrophe. After driving to and from the post office I took a 20-minute poop. Well the actual act of pooping only lasted about 30 seconds. The rest of the time was spent reading the rest of my Sunday Tribune-Review that I brought with me to work. You’ll be pleased to know that, after nearly 75 minutes of downtime, I was able to fix the precious Internet. How did I do it? Why, I UNPLUGGED AND REPLUGGED THE FUCKING MODEM. Thank God I’m two floors away from just about every one of my co-workers.

With all the military spending that went on in the '80s, you'd think ol' Ronnie would have splurged for a few walls or something.

Well I had a Seinfeld moment yesterday. The better half and I decided to take our separate bank accounts and merge them into one. When we went to her bank to close out her account, and withdraw the whopping $1.50 from her savings account (OK, she also had her most recent paycheck in there, too), we approached this bank teller who looked to be in her early 20s. As this relatively thin woman nervously typed in some numbers on her computer, one thing above all else stuck out at me. She had Man Hands. God damn were they Man Hands. How these sausages managed to push down only one key at a time were beyond me. The reason I noticed these Man Hands was because we were at her station for at least 10-15 minutes. The reason? She didn’t know the first thing about closing an account and had the old “Customer Service Representative in headlights” look. I’m not complaining, mind you, because this “headlights” feeling is one of the worst things anyone can experience, outside of unsuccessfully trapping a soccer ball with your inner thigh without wearing a jock strap. It’s funny when I hear some people who have never worked a customer-service job in their life complain when a cashier took longer than four seconds to give out proper change. Look, I know there are dipshits out there ringing registers, but not every cashier is a high school dropout who can’t perform basic match. My theory as to how normally bright people can suddenly clam up in situations like this isn’t because they can’t do the job, it’s that they aren’t used to be put on the spot like this. It’s like having to perform improv in front of an audience, and many people, especially if they’re new to something, just aren’t cut out for that sort of thing. Believe me, I know this feeling. There’s nothing like thinking you can answer just about anything a customer asks you, and then getting thrown for a loop with the first customer of the day who asks you something. The only way to deal with these types of experiences is to live through them. For me the most aggravating of these situations is when you are giving a customer change and they throw the old “here’s a few extra dollars, now give me a $10 bill instead of $5 and three $1s. Like I said before, the actual math of this equation is simple enough, but when you’re into hour seven of your shift, have four other people waiting in line, and have another customer asking you a question about something else, it’s easy to get flustered. And when you pause for a few seconds to get an idea of what’s going on, the spotlight suddenly shines brighter on you, and your every action and reaction is being judged by a bunch of people who think you’re not worthy of earning your $6/hour wage. For the record, my way of dealing with this is to not let the customer’s “extra $2” get anywhere near the $8 in change I was about to give him. Once that transaction was complete, I would then take the $10 in loose bills, put it in my register, and give out a $10 bill. Simple, effective and foolproof. And the only way I learned this was by trial and error, and then even more error. Back to the bank. So when this teller looked around for someone to help her out with a procedure she probably never had to do, and was only trained on for a few minutes when she started this job, what did I do? I stepped aside and worked on something else, trying to make her uncomfortable situation a little more bearable. I don’t know if it helped any, but it had to have been better than if I were to stand over her and impatiently tap my fingers on her counter.

If I gave you some anthrax to carry around, would you also make a stop at Hitlery's office?

For me the problem isn't necessarily to "speak English," but rather the unwillingness to assimilate. And if you don't think the government should get involved, do you think it warrants "civil rights" action?

Funny. In many of the baseball games I have played, most of my best hitters, stats-wise, were in the 6-8 spots.

You beat me to it. Bastard.

There's a black man on my couch.