Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Yet another open letter-

Dear You-know-who,

Do not call me all "Are you working on the Auction Program?" and react all "Why NOT!!!??@!111WTFBBQ!!!???!!!" and condescend to me that I need to be working on the program right this instant. I assure you, this program is not complex, despite what the people at last year's event may have evidenced. Honestly, a brain-damaged quadruple-amputee chimpanzee could operate this program. And I? Am not a brain-damaged, quadruple-amputee chimpanzee. It's data entry. It's not rocket science.

And oh, by the way? Data Entry? That means I have to have DATA. To. Enter.

If I don't have any information, like what the tickets cost, what the value is, what meals are available, how many tables we'll have, and how many people will be seated at them, and what types of auction items we have... I can't very well fucking enter it, now can I?

Right, because all that information is going to be decided in the 1 hour meeting on the 22nd? Today's the 15th. The 22nd is seven whole days away. So I don't think the world will end if I am not putting all 2 pieces of data I have into the program. Seriously.

Step off.

Special Sauce.

PS- if you think I'm coming BACK here after taking Evil to the vet, you're smoking more than crack.

PPS- Where's my motherfucking health insurance?

PPPS- Where are the bank statements and checks written since November 1?

PPPPS- Don't bitch at me if something's not in your palm, because you never bring it out here to synch it up. Besides, you should fucking KNOW where your parents live.


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