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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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Well, we have two cover staff.  One refuses to do nights, because she's sensible, and the other works the other night shift because they're not hiring anyone to replace the member of staff who left that position, and she has visa restrictions besides (I also strongly suspect they intend to downsize the staffing levels post Christmas).

Quite frankly, I think night shift does deserve extra pay, at least for unsociable hours.  But this company....they don't just ignore basic human decency, they literally will not do something unless you bring solicitors into the picture.  So yeah.  My best bet is to finish my dissertation, then get the hell out of dodge.

And they can't hire a contractor for a couple of days while you're out?

Yeah, that seems like a pretty normal course of action. My school did it when there was a campus security story published in the newspaper.

Incidentally they hired Securitas, which I later found out is the modern incarnation of the Pinkertons. And they didn't even bust any unions while they were there.  :cry:

Christ.  Here's hoping some hobo shits in the hall while you're away.

Submit this one to Hallmark.

11:50 - K9 officer walks into Sheriff's private entrance holding a cage, a live piglet within.

11:58 - K9 officer exits Sheriff's door, sans pig.


PD is waking back up.  You have to expect this.

The pig is alive and safely gone, which is great for the animal, but leads to a more disturbing conclusion for me personally.

The Sheriff's office is getting whimsical.

11:50 - K9 officer walks into Sheriff's private entrance holding a cage, a live piglet within.

11:58 - K9 officer exits Sheriff's door, sans pig.


Gross dude, it's like the dog shat all over the carpet and so you give it the vote.

Literate Chaotic / Re: Unofficial What are you Reading Thread?
« on: August 14, 2015, 09:24:54 pm »
:lulz: great closing line

I learned from Alty of Barney Sandlers, meme candidate currently facing off against Dolan J. Tramp and Hitlery Clintlock.




I have him for 14 days, then I don't see him again for a year.


I gained 15 pounds of muscle in the year or so of weekly gym visits and regular outdoor runs. As a certifiable skinny fuck that's a lot. But my gym partner has moved on to his workplace gym and I have no drive to hit it solo. So I bought a pull up bar and am on every other day rotations with running of: 4 sets pushups, 4 sets lunges, 4 sets planks, and 4 sets pull ups. Been a pretty good whole body feeling so far, and already improvement in reps and form in a few sessions.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Normal
« on: August 06, 2015, 06:09:02 pm »
I am a hideous & vile old man.  I am in fact so old that the Earth's population doubled in my lifetime.  Get that around your noodle...An extra 3.7 billion people in less than half a century.  I remember the world as not being so crowded, and I remember correctly.  When I was a boy there were fish in the ocean and turnip trees on the land, as far as the eye could see.

But having seven and a half billion people is the New Normal.

Humans are really good at compartmentalizing stuff.  Nigel could probably give you biological reasons for this, using words that sound made up but sadly aren't, but let's break it down in layman's terms.  When stress gets too awful, when the boogieman is coming out from under the bed with your tax records in his teeth, when your nation is eating itself and howling through mouthfuls of its own skin that it is still strong...The angel of apathy comes along and whacks you upside the head.  All these things are now Normal.  They are part of the routine, and are less stressful.  Or at least you can ignore the stress, at least until it's time to buy an AR15 and join the folks jabbering about Jade Helm.

Manufactured Normalcy.  It's not really a new concept.  How many times have you heard some horrible new band that makes you want to smash your car into a wall?  Everyone hates those guys.  But the radio plays them and plays them, MTV gets some brain-damaged kids to scream on TRL, and suddenly the horrible band is just another part of the scene.  This is how Fallout Boy happens.  Neuroscience is a strange and frightening thing, and not for the likes of you and I.  Unless you're the kind of person that gets off on slicing up thousands of snake brains.

Manufactured Normalcy is also how people like Rick Santorum and Donald Trump can run for president and have 47% of the country keep a straight face.  After all, once you've voted for Palin, you're pretty much at rock bottom, may as well go for broke.  It is how the TSA can now grab your junk for no reason and you just gotta stand there and smile.  It's how police can just start murdering people for any reason or no reason at all, and the outraged masses will...Well, they'll LIKE and they'll SHARE and they'll TWEET, but as mad as they get, it's now NORMAL, so that's all they're gonna do.  Get mad.  Not the clean, white-hot anger of the superior mutant, but the sickening, ulcer-inducing anger of a person who HAS gotten mad as hell, but IS gonna take it some more.  Not because they're cowards, but because that's the way it is

This is The Machine™.  It turns out there never were clattering treads and grindy choppy horrible spiky bits.  Well, actually there were.  But that's to be expected.

Or Kill Me.
Outrage is the new normal.

Internet shaming is the new normal.

Hell no GMO is the new normal.

Defund Planned Parenthood is the new normal.

So, a member of my gym killed herself 2 days ago, leaving behind a husband and 5 kids. She had suffered acute depression for years.

I just heard about this a couple of minutes ago. My gym session starts in 50 minutes. I'm going to have to listen to a bunch of people who don't understand depression carping about this shit, and I am not allowed to punch them.

What people do not understand about mental illness is the part of you that makes the decisions on how to act on that illness is the part of you that is being affected by the illness. It's no different than dying of cancer or heart failure, it's just a different organ that turned on you.
Woof. That's fucking awful.

I can ride my bike with no handlebars

We were at Turner's Pond and it was early, real early. I'd pulled up ready for the run and saw her standing off the path and looking out over the water. There was a little pile of flat stones by her feet. She'd been here long enough to collect them.

"Hey," I said.


"We're not running today, are we?"

She didn't look at me. She picked up one of the flat stones and she hefted it in her palm. She swung her arm back over her hip and let it fly over the water, swiveling just a little on follow through. The rock skipped once, twice, three times. Little splashes like thunderclaps, little ripples like tidal waves.

"No," she said.

I nodded. She couldn't see me. She picked up another stone. I winced as she threw it.

"Listen," I said, "could you stop for a second and-"

"No!" Finally she turned to face me. "Can you stop, EoC? Can you stop?" She tossed the next stone. Skip, skip, skip, plunk. Would have been a good throw for a half stack. Too much power for a full, not enough spin. "You can't, can you? You know, when we started dating, I told you I couldn't go back to it, I told you that part of me was gone. I told you that I couldn't be around it anymore and you promised me those days were behind you. Promised me!"

I was silent. I picked up one of her stones. Would have been a great custom slammer, flat but just a little fat in the center, would have fooled even the regulars with the weight. I looked at her and I looked over the water, then I tossed the thing down like a stack was on the other end. It was mean and she set her jaw.

"You miss it," I said. "Listen, you know you could just do it casually. I know this one crew, they don't even play for keeps, you can-"

"Goodbye, EoC." That was it. It was final.

I walked back to the path, back to the lot and the car. Behind me the world went skip, skip, skip, plunk and all the little sprayed droplets were a thousand cardboard discs.

Hell of a thing, pogs.

They come up around here now and then and my days banging slammers behind the roller rink come back in a flood, the storms and the strange kid and the wreckage. Wreckage of pogs and people.

Richter and I thought we could hash it out, you know, after the last time. Talk therapy or something, I don't know. We met up for some fine German beer and maybe a round or two of Barenjager. Nothing treats the soul like live accordian and drinking songs. It was game night, the perfect thing, maybe a pickup game of Catan could distract us if it got too real.

But it was game night. Splayed across fields of folding plastic was an array of tabletop ranging from simple card to complex miniature. They held the attention of bodies in steel chairs happily sipping on imported lager. Richter and I nodded our approvals. This would do, yeah, this would be fine.

We were insufficiently drunk to bring up the topic of pogs, of course, but every quarter hour or so one of us would look up at the other, just about ready to say it, then toss the dice again before we made such a dumb mistake. The other gamers were friendly and invited us to a few of their rounds, one guy in particular taking interest. He bought us drinks and clapped us on the back after good plays and we circled the place, sticking to the light stuff, nothing with collectible components.

It was maybe the third hour in that our new friend pulled us aside. Got a different kind of game going, guys, if you're interested. None of this casual shit. He reached into his pocket and before he could show us his hand I shoved him away. I grabbed Richter and moved us toward the exit but it was too late. As the guy stumbled back he dropped them and they made a telling soft sound, a dozen of them and then a clatter of something heavy.

It was too much for Richter. He ripped his arm free and turned and surveyed the room, the battlefield, the killing grounds. Honed instinct took him and the daze of booze drained from his eyes. Richter, I called, go someplace else. Go someplace else but too little, too little. When the first table fell and the various gamers drunkenly scrambled away I got out of there.

Never did hear about the aftermath. You don't look back with pogs.

Pogs, man. Hell of a thing.

Literate Chaotic / Re: Five word horror
« on: July 24, 2015, 02:08:42 am »
Roger and Cain on Caledonian.

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