My Delusional Reality

Overheard at Work

First thing this morning, while sitting at my desk, Bimbo, myspace whore that she is,  busts out with, "Oh My God!  This picture!  I know that bedroom, I know that ceiling."

When I say Bimbo and myspace whore, I mean them in the best possible way.  Really, I do.  She constantly calls me a bitch, we just work that way.

Your Kid Smells Funny

Apparently, I work in a daycare.  Our crazy Russian lady accountant brought her sick kid to the office today.  Obviously, I don't have any stinky little ones of my own.  That's probably a good thing.  I don't want kids - I don't like the way they smell, the sounds that they make or the stuff that comes out of them.  I made that choice for myself just as the rest of you decided to have kids (or at least you decided to get drunk then the real hilarity ensued).  I can respect your decision; please respect mine.  Discipline your damn children.  None of this bullshit time out or the countless empty threats.  Give me a break, fool!  I don't want to hear your little heathen whine and cry because they want a cookie.  Especially at the office.  I mean seriously, isn't it enough that I have to listen to Bimbo each day?  That's a feat in and of itself - at this point, it's impossible for me to even count the amount of times I want to knock the holy hell out of that woman each day.