25 August, 2010

We're looking at another double shift.

The day's already looking to be chock full of idiots. Take, for example, the young Asian man who saw me unlocking the office. No sooner had I placed my laptop on the desk before he, having followed me in, asked, "Do you know what the new code is going to be?" in reference to that we change the back door code every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Not yet, no, I just opened up the door, man.
"OK." He proceeds to stare at me with empty doll's eyes and a nitrous oxide grin, I shake the mouse on the office computer to wake it up. He's staring at me and takes a step closer to the desk.
"Do you have any bidets?"
What?
"Do you have any bed dates?"
Huh?
"Bad days."
Yeah, I have plenty of bad days, man, look: I'm not even logged into the system yet, you're going to have to give me five minutes.
"OK." He shuffles off.
Off the top of my head... ####*. Cool. Got it. I go to grab my coffee and I see him, mesmerized by the faux-antique globe in the hall, ####*.
"####?"
Yep.
"Ah."
I grab my coffee and get back to my desk. He comes in again.
"Do you have any ban days?"
Wait, wha - Oohh, Band-Aids! Yeah, sorry, they're in the first aid kit on the mantle.
"The mantle?"
Yeah, the mantle.
"Mantle."
On the fire place. You know, the mantle. It's important to note that I've been pointing at the mantle the entire time.
Then there's the obligatory already-agitated and super-excitable ghetto guy calling from the Greyhound station followed by yesterday's German sleeper-agent completely displaying a lack of tactical-field prowess. She had come in and collected the code, which will change at 1100CDT. She thanked me and left.
She returned, flustered, accompanied by the Asian gentleman from yesterday who had no sense of time. "I thought you said the new code was ####!"
It doesn't change until eleven.
"Eleven?"
Eleven.
"That's good to know. Thanks."
And it's only because she's wicked hot and I knocked two out of the park yesterday thinking about having fucked up espionage sex with her that I forgo mentioning to her, Yeah, eleven. Which is exactly what that reminder on the back door reads. I don't mention that. Because I want spy sex.
Maybe I can get her to dress up like Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS.
It is 1000CDT and I have thirteen hours left to go. At some point this evening the Party of Fourteen will return from whatever conference they're here for and I'll have to confront them on the folding chair they broke. Dick move? Sure. But go to Holiday Inn or Super 8 and break a piece of furniture. You think we hold on to peoples' credit card info for shits and giggles? Nope.
The only thing I have a qualm with? I don't know what a metal folding chair goes for so I Google it.
They average about US$50.
How am I going to get them to fork over fifty goddamned beans? People get pissy when you tell them that luggage handling's ten bucks, how th'fuck am I going to squeeze fifty beans out of these kids?
Thirteen more hours of this shit. If there ever were a need for a blow job and a Vicodin. Obviously the Vicodin would come after the blow job, you don't want to go all numb and shit in the middle of a beejer.
ANYhoo, Obama calling motherfuckers out. Check it.

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