So there I was...

Don't all good stories, and a couple of metric shitloads of bad ones, start out just like that?

Anyway.

I was at work today. That should come as no suprise to anyone that knows me, cause I'm so fucking Stupid Brand dedicated that I'll go in on my Beelzabubba damned day off, just to get shit done that I didn't have time to do during my regularly scheduled insanity. Maybe if I didn't have so many jackass customers bending my day over regularly for a proper buggering, I could get some of the shit done that Corporate Offices, (long may they rot!) demand of me. Course, then I'd be out of a job, as a low volume of customers means shutting down a location.

Eventually.

If I could figure out a way to make a mint without customers in the retail business, I'd be almost as smart as Al "I can't make money in radio even though all those evil Reichwingnut bastards can't seem to stop making money in radio" Franken thinks he is. But I can't, and I'm not, and there we have it.

Where was I? Wait a minute, let me knock back another shot of cold medicine here, and it'll come to me.

Ahhhh, that's better. I don't pray, but if I ever decide to, the first thing I'm going to do is ask God if she'd be a nice little bitch and let those swell boys over at Tylenol stay at the Paradise Hotel, all on account of the really splendiferous mint flavored cold medicine they've managed to put together. Fuck that other nasty shit that leaves your breath smelling like Dana Priest just took a record breaking dump in your breakfast cereal.

So there I was behind my counter, 47 bajillion customers on the other side of that bad red formica bitch, taking care of their trivial little concerns just as fast as my fat little fingers could work the fucking cash registers keys, when a fine specimen of Passive Agressive Douchenozzle decides to strap on his hobnailed combat boots and tap dance on my last fornicating nerve.

Have I ever mentioned how much I despise the Passive Agressive bullshit people like to pull in this day and age, all for the loverly purpose of getting a few free prints? No? Well, I'm sure I'll get around to it, sooner come later.

This fucknozzle, this cumstain, this rotten spoogemopper in the Porn Theatre of Life, decides not to speak up to the two jackasses that cut in front of him in the line. Oh no. That would be way too much effort, you see. No, it suits Mr. Cumbubble much more comfortably to wait until the actual perpetrators of this indignity upon his person have gone safely the hell away, and then blame ME for his inability to bring his noodlesque spine with him today.

Fuck. Me. Screaming.

As if I even saw these two fine specimens of humanity trample his pride in such a horrific fashion. As if I'd give two wet shits if I did.

Gawd. Damn.

Do you know how hard it is for me to bite my tongue when this sort of scrotum gnawing, dog felching bag of flutternuts brings his personal load of dumbass to my attention, demanding that I fix his problems?

I make photos, man. I'm not in the business of phsychoanalysis. Go find someone with a nice leather couch to listen to your petty bullshit. Me? I'm busy. In the next 30 minutes, I have to squeeze 1798 prints out of a machine the manufacturer swears won't give me more than 1000 in an hour.

Do the math, fucktard!

Ah well, bedtime. I'm outta here. Hang around, hang loose, and tomorrow you get to see me rant about Leftards. And the day after, too. As the mighty Baron of Bang likes to say, "Appeal to your base."

And if you muthas are anything like me, you are base, lemme tell ya.