Tuesday, April 22, 2014

I Must Be Ovulating...or something.

At work today...

Me (to supervisor): Hey.
Supervisor: What's up.
Me: Nothing.
Supervisor: Okay....you sure?
Me: Yup.  I thought I'd just pop in to say, "hi" and see how YOU are doing for no real reason except that I care.
Supervisor: *staring blankly*
Me: What?
Supervisor: Are you ok?
Me: Yea.  I guess I must be ovulating or something because I'm feeling slightly nurturing for some weird reason.
Supervisor: Wow, really? Nurturing.  Huh. That's weird.
Me: I know.
*crickets chirping*
Me: You're plant looks like it needs water. 
Supervisor: Yeah, that's because I don't water it.
Me: *no response*
Supervisor: You wanna water it for me?
Me: *rolling eyes and sighing LOUDLY* Oh for crying out loud, I'm not feeling THAT nurturing...Jesus *leaves dramatically*

Monday, April 21, 2014

Happy Easter. Here's a rabbit's ASS in cake form.

Happy Easter internets...

My mom bought this cake.

My dad made approximately 4 inappropriate jokes about this cake.

My sister replied to each one of his jokes, "I don't get it."



Friday, April 11, 2014

Upper Holes...your best guess.

The following may make NO sense to you whatsoever.

Rest assured, it makes no sense to me either, and I was THERE, soooo....clearly YOU have a problem.

No.  Just kidding.

Not really. 

Aaaanyways....here's the scenario:

If a 7 year old child came to you and advised that you should use the term "upper hole" (whilst you were drinking gin at your sisters house and therefore couldn't really remember what you had said just immediately prior to this declaration)....what would you think he meant?

YES!  Me too. 

And then my sister was all, like, "um NO...weirdo.  That's NOT what that means."

Which, naturally, prompted me to ask said 7 year old what exactly did they mean by  "upper hole"...which prompted renewed protests from my sister (who is a GIANT prude ).

See, I had assumed they meant "mouth" or, perhaps "ears"-as the ears are parallel to the mouth and I was interpreting "upper" in the most literal sense of the word.

Turns out the kid meant butthole. (which FYI is actually the LOWER most hole, but what the f*ck do I know I've only been sticking things in my holes for, like, 20 more years than this dumb kid...LOSER)


Turns out the kid meant BUTThole.

Which made me wonder that the f*ck I said to prompt this dialogue to begin with I immediately pointed out is NOT the upper most orifice on his person at which point I proceeded to name all of the orifices on said child's person beginning with the nethermost hole.

My prudish sister objected immediately.

Well, says I...what else would you like me to call it, a "wee wee"?

Meg: I don't want you calling it ANYTHING.

Me: just out of curiosity, does he know that he has two OUT holes down there?  I mean, provided he's not-

Meg: NO.

Me: I'm just saying that while most people consider those both an OUT only, there are some-

Meg: NO.

I swear.  Sometimes I think my sister was put on Earth to spoil all my fun.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Conversations on the Job: Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire.

Recently I met with my client, Joe, and his mom.  Mom really, really, really wants her son, my client, Joe, to find gainful employment and get the HELL outta her house.

My client?

Not so much.

He's failed out of  quit three job programs so far (or maybe four, whose counting taxpayer dollars at this point...NOT ME).

So here we are...again.  Another year, another failed program. 

Mom was mad.  I mean, real mad. 

Joe was cool as a cucumber. 

I asked him about each program he's quit failed so far.  For one program (culinary school) he said that he developed an allergy to flames.  For another (janitorial work) he said he got bursitis.  For another, (loss prevention at a department store) it was straight up discrimination yo.

This whole time mom is shaking her head and making disbelieving noises (impossible to adequately describe here so use your imagination).  Finally, Mom had enough.

Mom: This is BULLSHIT.  He needs to get a job.
Me: Well Joe, what do you want to do?
Joe: I was thinking I'd like to be a CIA agent.
Me: That's very noble.
Joe: Thank you.
Me: You know what the number one skill you need to have to be a CIA agent is, right?
Joe: What?
Me: You need to be a good liar.
Joe: Oh I can lie.
Me: Oh, I know you can lie.  You done lied to me about four times so far this last half hour, but that's not what I said.  I said you need to be a good liar.
Joe: What?
Me: That means you need to lie & get away with it.  You're not so good at that Joe.
Joe: Oh.
Me: Soo...
*uncomfortable silence*
Joe: Well, I guess I'll be a massage therapist then.
Me: Good plan.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Why I Should Not Be In Charge...EVER.

The problem with taking 2 kids to the Zoo in these t-shirts...

...is that people inevitably want to know what happened to “Thing 1” & “Thing 2".

Apparently the WRONG response is any of the following:
1. Oh, we’re polygamists...

2. I sold them


4. *exasperated sigh* I don't know, I can only keep track of 2 AT A TIME
5. Who?

6. Well *insert dramatic eye roll* I had to give the Tooth Fairy SOMEthing in return now didn’t I?

7. Last time I saw 'em they's a playin’ over there by the Chubacabra habitat..
8. Oh, they were Aliens so I returned them…

9. My Shih Tzu ate them

10. It was Obamacare. Obama magically evaporated 2 of my children with his "liberal agenda".

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Fucking Lemurs...

So...I took my two youngest neices to the Zoo for a day of innocent fun...

Except that then this happened....

Fucking Lemurs.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Conversations on The Job: An Actual Conversation

Welcome to the "Conversations On The Job" series on this here blog that no one reads, in which I will chronicle actual conversations that actually happen at my job which I shall call: Conversations on The Job.

I have an...interesting  job. 

Frankly, for most of my life I have had "interesting"  jobs.   

Which is to say that I have held jobs wherein things happen to me that NO ONE believes actually happened. 

Like the time when I was working on an ambulance and picked up one of our local homeless guys who'd passed out taken a nap on a local train track and had his ASS run over by a train. 

Only his ASS. 

The right cheek to be specific.

No joke.

I don't know how these things happen.  I just report on them after the fact.

To be fair, it sounds like a bigger deal than it was.  It was mostly a flesh wound (your ass is very fleshy) and so we took him to the local hospital where they cleaned up the wound, slapped a bandage on it, prescribed some antibiotics and released him a few days later.  

For the next two months  this man called 911 over and over and over again because he NEVER filled his antibiotic prescription and his ASS wound kept getting infected.  Every time  the infection became severe he'd call 911, we'd take him  to the hospital, they'd debride the wound in surgery, slap a bandage on it, prescribe an antibiotic and release him. 

This man apparently NEVER ONCE swallowed ONE SINGLE antibiotic tablet because the cycle repeated.

Over and over and over.

The thing is, that EVERY TIME the surgeons would debride the wound, this poor man ended up with less and less of an ASS than he had before.

So,  every time we picked him up, his ASS was smaller and smaller and smaller until he had one full ASS cheek and one concave fleshy bit that used  to be the other  half of his ASS. 

It was like the case of the disappearing ass.

NONE of my non-ambulance working friends believed me when I told them that story. 

And such is the case now when I tell my non-social worker friends stories about my current job as a social worker. 

Nobody believes me when I tell them stories of things that ACTUALLY happen to me at work. 

Every day I'm having conversations with my clients during which I'm thinking to myself, "Damn.  This is hilarious, and/or otherwise unbelievable, but NOBODY is going to believe me when I tell them about it."

Like the time one of my clients, whom I shall call 'Bob', called me frantic one afternoon because he'd utilized the services of a "lady caller"-shall we say-and then didn't pay her for her hard work which, naturally, caused some problems for her booking agent (aka: Pimp).

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello?

Bob: I need you to explain to my friend that imma gonna pay him when my social security comes in Ok?

*loud banging noises accompanied by loud yelling*

Me: What's that noise?

Bob: What?

Me: The banging & the yelling...What is that and why is it happening?

Bob: Oh well, I mean...I just need you to explain to him that my social security only comes on the fifth.

*more loud banging & yelling*

Me: Bob, I'm having trouble hearing you over the yelling.

Bob: I need some money.

Me: Ok, well I can't help you with that.  Who is yelling and why?

Bob: I had a date.

*banging & yelling continues*

Me: Ok...

Bob: And, well Imma hold the phone up to the door & you can just explain it to him, ok?

Me: Explain what?

Bob: Why I can't pay him right now.

Me: Pay who?

Bob: I had a DATE.

Me: *no response*

Bob: You know...

Me: Wait...did you pay for this date?

Bob: No.

*banging & yelling*

Me: Were you supposed to pay for this date?

Bob: *no response*

Me: I think I see what's going on here.

Bob: *no response*

Me: You picked up a prostitute, didn't you?

Bob: She agreed to come over!

Me: Because she thought she would get PAID Bob.

Bob: Well...I meant to pay her.

Me: Did you tell her you'd pay her?

*no response*

Me: So now her pimp is mad at you because you didn't pay...right?

Bob: l told him that Imma pay him on the fifth when my social security comes.

Me: Well how's that working for you Bob?

Bob: Can you just tell him that I'll pay him on the fifth?

Me: This isn't Pretty Woman, Bob.  They don't work on commission.

*no response*

*banging & yelling continues*

Me: That's her pimp isn't it Bob?

Bob:  Can you just tell him Imma pay him on the fifth?

Me: No. 

Bob: But if you could just explain to him that Imma pay him on the fifth...

Me: Bob...

Bob: Please?

Me: I cannot help you with this.

Bob: Oh....Ok

Me: Word of advice?

Bob: Yeah?

Me: Pay up front next time...