Little Pleasants

While walking through a supermarket, I noted there was an isle designated:

Juice - Deserts

Things like that give me a little hope for this world.

Oh Crockballs.

I have a job. Part of this job involves me running between the store I work in and a sister store on opposing ends of Dublin City Centre, sometimes 3 or 4 times a day.

My job involves carrying all sorts of items between these stores, big and small, many and few, paper and plastic.

My job does not involve slamming into anyone along the way. Especially not anyone down on one knee, underneath the Spire, proposing to his girlfriend.

Supplies flew everywhere. Traffic was stopped. This burly man was on his arse. I could detect imminent retribution dropping out of fist-shaped warp speed and heading, without hesitation, towards the tip of my nose. I'd like to think I did the rational, human and sensible thing, by staring back at the horrified look on the to-be-fiancé still standing, then belting it down Henry Street.

I did hear a scream of "SUGGMAPEEEL" chasing me from behind. I have been googling the meaning of this phrase and the occam's razor suggests that the felled gentleman was asking me, in Afrikaans, to snack on his phallus. Probably not a good idea when you're trying to set a romantic mood in which to ensnare your wife, though he arguably failed at that by popping the question underneath the most blatantly obvious priapist monument on the planet.

Except maybe this one.

I got away scot-free, yet have been slightly wracked with guilt ever since and despite picking up a copy of Brutal Legend, I haven't been able to allow myself to play it, in a sort of self-imposed penance.

Maybe it goes away in time?

What Kind Of Month Has It Been

Now Where Was I?

Oh yes.


Sometimes dodgy clipart is all you need.

Several things have been keeping me hither and dither for the past while, so allow me represent some of them visually by thrice bisecting the above image.

















See? All thoroughly explicable! Stay tuned.

Now Where Was I?

Oh yes. I believe I made a post about logic just before everything completely Wengered up. A lot has happened, including the re-initialisation of college, two jobs, a psychopathic Spaniard, a friendship dredged from the end of the world back to the equator, self-infecting myself with a frigus (or cold, for those cretins amongst you who don't speak Latin), arguments over a number that doesn't actually exist and far too many more to mention here.

But as I slowly catch you up with the details of each (or at least most), let me start from the beginning with a little section I like to call:

HELLESALES

What I expected to be a brief stint in a telemarketing office effectively became a dead stop after a mere three days (or more accurately nine cumulative hours) of work. For those of you inexperienced in the ways of call centres, let me explain that they are shiftless, soulless miseries of zones that may or may not once have been previously populated by a happy culture of bacteria. As such, telemarketing is enough to suck the life out of anything. A sucker (telemarketeer) is given a script to read out and a slightly blank phone directory listed alphabetically by estate to dial, one after the other. The targets were 90 calls an hour and 3-4 sales per day. That's at least a call every 40 seconds. And 1 sale per 90 calls. Oh yah, and I was selling windows.

Should you fail to meet either of these goals after three full days, they pull your sloth-like tush out of minimum wage and into the big rubbish pile lovingly called Commissionia. You and I both know that if someone needs their house made out of PVC pronto, they won't hang around the phone until the telesales kid comes a-knocking. They'll go hunting down what they need right away, leaving only a burning need to assert superiority the guy who 'should have called last week'. From the first second, it was obvious this policy was only in place as a poorly disguised excuse to underpay the peons who were willing to do any sort of work at all for little or no thanks. Not that it requires much talent. I say much, because my supervisor assigned me to called estates that had only been built in the last 4 years (because they're clearly near the top of the need-new-windows list). As if that wasn't enough, I knew it was time to pull the plug when she insulted a customer and then lied to her about her details.

I politely informed them that I would not be returning on Monday and I wanted my gorram money. I cut and ran like the lovechild of a Microsoft program and a scissors, the bus home in wait for me. And why did I not blog about it? Because that night I went to my friends' place to find out they had gotten engaged.

Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling continuation on Why notRuairi Wasn't Blogging Or Online A Lot In General This Week.

note to self. need snappier titles.

Fairview Logic #1

###WARNING: DISGUSTING###

While completing my walk home tonight, I was dying for a pee. I mean my bladder felt like it was being hit by mortar round after mortar round by the time I was with within spitting distance of home. As I turned the corner to my apartment building, I saw a man urinating. Let me say my building is ever so slightly off the beaten track, so this guy was either way off course, or he lived in the building.

"Why are you peeing on your own front door?"

The man was inebriated enough to turn around, phallus in hand, still in mid-stream, but sober enough to explain why he was doing so.

"I wasn't going to make it up the stairs, so rather than whizz myself, the sun can evaporate it and I don't have to put my pants in the washing machine tomorrow."

There you go. Cut down on your CO2 emissions and your dignity - pee in public.

Russia 1896, now in technicolor!

In what has to be one of the more simple and brilliant things I've seen, the restored images of a Czech photographer on holiday, touched up with a dash of primaries, secondaries and tertiaries.

That small image does not do the proper works justice, so check them out.

Attractive Girls Should Not Kiss Nerdy Boys

It's likely to induce catatonia, of which there has never been a good kind.