There's only one man whose ass I want to see, and guess what? You're not him.

[apocalypsos]

I swear, in between all of the klutzy manuevers I pulled tonight at work -- one right in front of the boss, just for the hell of it -- I almost throttled the person working on the line with us. Inevitably, it's me, The Skinny Ditz (What? She'd agree with that description), and whichever inept rube the coach decides to punish us with. Last night it was a new guy (well, not THAT new) who just kept standing around and doing nothing. The Skinny Ditz and I were bouncing around trying to get shit done, and he'd be leaning against the machine staring. And for added fun, he had his jeans hitched down past his boxers. I spent all night forced to look at, from top to bottom:

Waistband of boxers
Ass hanging out
Fervent hope and prayer
Belted waist of jeans

I maintain that I deserve some sort of award for not yanking down his jeans to embarrass the hell out of him. Dumbass.

On the upside, I filled out the paperwork to take the vacation days for Winchestercon. Woohoo! *flails in anticipation*