(no subject)

So. Work. Blech.

I have a feeling I'm going to have to kiss up to Bosslady tomorrow, because 8:30 came and I finished my data entry and basically didn't do jack squat after that. Then again, according to whatever ridiculous imaginary schedule from another plane of reality they were consulting when they made me permanent, my shift is supposed to end at 8:30 p.m.

This assumes, of course, that someone bothered to inform everyone else I work with. If I had a car, I wouldn't have this problem, but alas, I must wait for a ride either all the way home or to the nearest Metro. This ends up meaning that someone, usually the Glorified Optimist, will spot me checking LJ or my email and instantly assume I Must Be Working. You know, sort of like the two guys sitting across from me throwing paper airplanes at each other and talking in Spanish as if I don't know what they're saying. I really need to remember how to say, "Aim for the eyeball," one day out of the blue just to scare the crap out of them.

And before anyone asks why I don't just go do something else not involving a computer, the thing is, as long as I'm on the premises, I Must Be Working. So whether I'm sitting at Lieutenant Asshat's desk eating all of his beef jerky and reading my friends list or hiding out somewhere else, the Glorified Optimist will find me, and if he can find me, maybe I can type up these extra airbills and this manifest and while I'm at it, I can blahblahblah sentient-typewriter-cakes. I've contemplated locking myself in a bathroom stall after 8:30 p.m., but I know about those frogs that spontaneously change their sex when the situation calls for it, and I'm worried the Glorified Optimist knows about them, too, and is just saving the ability to use said knowledge for the opportune moment. Some magic tricks are just too scary to contemplate.

And the great thing about entering the data from handwritten airbills -- and I use the term "great thing" with enough sarcasm to choke every sea horse on the planet at once -- are stupid people. And I'm not talking about the idiots who think that Jerusalem or West Africa are countries. I'm not even bringing up the dumbasses, specifically the ones who fill out the US Coast Guard slips, who randomly scratch out account numbers I need for data entry like they have anything to do with billing. (I don't know about you, but I don't casually cross out things on documents unless I know what the hell they are.) No, I'm talking about the braintrusts who work in the highest levels of government, the military, and the financial sector and can't write out a fucking address. You'd be amazed how many supposedly educated individuals can balance large budgets, invade countries, and write legislation, yet missed the day in Terrifyingly Expensive Private College where they were taught how to fill out an envelope. *growls*

Meanwhile, back in the Attempted Deliveries room, I've started tunneling out behind the filing cabinet. If anybody has Gimli's cell number, he's got some family I'd like to contact for advice.

And I didn't get a "No internet" warning today like I thought, but I bet it's coming tomorrow. I checked my email right before Bosslady left today, although I'd thought she'd already gone. This one time, of course, will be the reason I didn't get to work on the packages outside the AD room before I left. Never mind that the lot who were supposed to bring them to me waited until the last fucking second, played some cards, taught kittens to hopscotch, sewed together a suacy red dress for J. Lo to wear to the Oscars, traveled to Borneo, created a tiny, perfect universe inside a Pepsi bottle, divided the meaning of life by six just because they could, made out with Orlando Bloom, and THEN brought me the goods.

Gee, thanks, guys. When I finally take over the planet with my dark minions, you'll be placed in charge of babysitting the president. So there.

You know, after that rant, I may just be cynical enough to watch "Dead Like Me."

Maybe.

(no subject)

Spotted on IMDb ...

Irish heart-throb Colin Farrell's first full frontal movie scene has been cut by worried film bosses - after test audiences were transfixed by the size of his manhood. The Phone Booth hunk disrobed for scenes in upcoming drama A Home At The End Of The World, but after seeing the stunned reaction of viewers at a recent screening, chiefs decided to chop the naughty images. And the news has been greeted with fury by self-confessed Romeo Farrell, who has demanded the scenes must be included in the DVD release of the film. A source tells British newspaper the Sun, "All you could hear were gasps when Colin appeared in his full frontal pose. "The women were over-excited and the men looked really uncomfortable. It was such a sight it made it difficult to concentrate on the plot, so the decision was made to get rid of it." Even director Michael Mayer admits, "It was distracting." In the film, Farrell plays a bisexual man caught in a love triangle.

To describe the level of wrong it is to cut that scene would involve measuring in light years.