What A Fucking Waste Of Time

I checked my email this morning, and had the following waiting from Ditech: Jim, Time to update the blog. I need you to do this for me, as I am drunk and at a co-worker of yours who will remain anonaymous at this point. I am also preatty baked. I miss your cynical look at things and the way you hate your commute. I feel as if a part of me is missing… I am sorry if you are: Sick, Hurt, Ungodly busy (and haven’t blogged about it), On your death bed, not working at [The Company] (and didn’t blog about it), had some terrible tradegity in your life (and didn’t blog about it), because I don’t know, and because you haven’t blogged about it. What’s funny about this email (if you ignore the horrible-yet-hilarious spelling and grammar) is Ditech’s attempt to avoid embarrassment. Last time he emailed me a request like this, I was on my death bed with pneumonia and missed a week of work.

I know it’s been a long while since I updated my blog; too long. The interminable length of the day just sucks my soul straight through my ass without so much as a generous helping of K-Y. Waking up at 4:00am, leaving the house at 4:55am, getting to work at 7:30am, leaving work at 5:00pm, and getting home at 7:30pm turns me into a quivering blob of fat (more so than I already am) by the end of the day. All I want to do when I get home is eat dinner and sleep. While I may think “my blog needs updating,” I’m too fucking tired to break out the laptop and bang out an update. However, since I received the drunken, weed-influenced email above, I feel somewhat… pressured… to come up with an update. I hope all you bastards are happy. Hell, actually have a lot to blog about… so there may be another update soon after this one. Keyword: “may.”

The picture for this update is one of our new commuters. She’s The Company’s new receptionist, which is part of the accounting department. On the way to work Friday, we were somehow making fun of cops and their overwhelming fondness of deep-fried dough. She mentioned she had never been to, or even had, Krispy Kreme doughnuts. What? That meant we had to stop on the way home. Timing was perfect, too. We got Krispy Kreme at 6:55pm, 5 minutes before the neon Hot Lamp was lit. There’s something very comforting about hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts right off the line. It’s almost sexual, goddammit. I mean, to a fat guy, these hot, sugary rings of goodness are like cosmetics to women, leather cheerios to fags, or little boys to priests. They’re that fucking good! The picture came about because I asked the girl behind the counter for a paper campaign cap, which is what you see our receptionist wearing in the picture. I left with two dozen, which I gave to Tina as a belated birthday present.

Last weekend, I lost my wallet. I say lost, but I mean someone stole it, but I can’t prove it. It’s a lengthy story, so I’ll try to keep it pithy. Two Saturdays ago, I went to the local pet store for parrot seed and pellets. After that, I went to Jack in the Box for dinner. I went through the drive-thru at Jack’s, so I never left my truck. I paid with my Visa debit card, which was in my wallet. The teenage food monkey gave me my card and the receipt. I put the card back in my wallet, and the receipt on the passenger seat. I put my wallet on the passenger seat, too. I would have put it back in my pocket, but because I’m forced to wear a fucking seat belt, it’s simply easier to put my wallet on the passenger seat. The point here is, my wallet was still in my truck after Jack in the Box.

I drove straight home without making another stop. I took the parrot food in the house first, then went back for the human food. I locked the truck, entered the house, and locked the front door… not even thinking about my wallet. I’ve thrown my wallet on the passenger seat so many times, I can’t count. But when I needed to go into town for milk on Monday morning, I couldn’t find my wallet. Fuck! I had a reimbursement check from The Company, a bank debit card, a credit card, driver’s license, a spare key to my truck, and the RFID proximity card for access to the building in which I work.

I checked my truck several times, checking under the seats, between the seats, under the back seat, under the subwoofer, in the pockets on the seat backs, the map pockets on the doors… everywhere in the truck. I even checked the truck with a Maglight just in case I couldn’t see clearly under the seats. No luck. My wallet was still missing. Tina even checked the truck. She even checked the insides of the aluminum wheels under the truck. We also checked every room in the house, and turned the living room and bedroom upside down several times looking for the goddamn thing before I broke down and called the bank and credit card company to cancel cards. Since the wallet had to be in the truck (which it wasn’t), in the house (which it wasn’t), or on the ground somewhere in the 12 feet from my truck to the front door (which it wasn’t), I can only believe that one of my cock-sucking, noise-making, inconsiderate fucking retard neighbors picked it up. Assholes!

Tuesday, I worked from home so I could go to the Department of Licensing for a replacement driver's license. Ya gotta love the Catch-22 I faced. To replace my license, I needed $15. However, I had no way to get money from the bank without my bank card. I could go to the bank and withdraw money, but I need identification to do that… of course, as I just said, I had no identification. To solve this conundrum, I wrote a check on one of the starter checks I got when I opened the bank account in 2001. Wotta cluster! I’ve already got my new bank card, my new license, and my new proximity card… which cost me fifty fucking dollars. Goddamn building management is raping people when they’re down.

Anyway, that’s all I got in me for an update today. I have more to write about… including an upcoming move, hysterical cock waving, a sack of dead kittens, a family member in the hospital, and a somewhat uneventful Company picnic. You’ll just have to wait a few days, bitches.