The Magic Boxer Shorts
It’s St. Patrick’s Day on Friday. I’m sure there is some sort of meaning behind St. Patrick’s Day, but as far as I’m concerned I’m happy to support any event that primarily revolves around drinking. A group of people from work and myself are going out on Friday for a goodbye party thing for myself, as that’s my last day as work.
Apparently Ms. J is quite a spectacle when she’s drunk so I’ll have to remember to shout her plenty of drinks.
On the phone to Adam at lunch today:
Me: We’re organising some St. Patrick’s Day stuff, probably gonna go out and get pissed.
Adam: When’s St. Patrick’s Day?
Me: This Friday.
Adam: Oh, well, if I don’t get a day off from work for it I’m not interested.
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I wore my pair of magic boxer shorts by mistake today. I’m sure that everyone owns at least one pair of magic boxer shorts. They’re magic because when you put them on in the morning, they’re boxer shorts. However, over the course of the day they magically crawl up your bum crack and up around the tops of your legs, and transform into a g-string. The magic boxer shorts work especially well when you’re wearing jeans over them.
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We had KFC for dinner tonight. I never thought I’d say this, but I am so over KFC at the moment. When I move up to Sydney hopefully Adam will keep a close eye on me, so I don’t make any more Kentucky Fried Mistakes.
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Our cubicle at work has bought a Travel Battleship board game. That’s how bored we get at work. We simply aren’t getting any work. (I bet the day after I leave, everyone finds out their temp contracts are ending at the end of the next week). Today we resorted to playing hangman. Ms. B and Jolly Man were playing against each other, and at the end of the game Jolly Man was quite proud, as he’d gotten only one guess wrong, which equates to only the head of the hangman being drawn.
Jolly Man: Woo hoo! Only got the head.
Me: Well, sometimes some head is all you need to be a winner.
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I saw an advertisement for the Sydney Olympics 2000 edition of Scrabble. Oh, please. Am I going to have to put up with this crapola when I move up to Sydney?
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Community Radio Steve gave me a phone call at work today - he wanted us to grab a bite to eat together before I left for Sydney. I politely declined - he’d just rabbit on about his latest schemes. Seeing as he couldn’t rabbit on about his latest schemes at lunch, he decided to rabbit on about his latest schemes while he had me on the phone. He’s come up with this new idea that it’d be really cool if he died his hair grey - because ‘nobody’s thought of that before, man!’ Bear in mind, this is a guy who once tried to sue a lawyer.
Personally, I’m never ever going to die my hair. I had a bad experience when I was in year nine - my friend tried to die my hair light brown but it went pink. It wasn’t even a good pink. It was this really dull, horrible, wine vomit pink. This didn’t worry me however, as my friend was far worse off - when he’d rubbed the dye in my hair, he hadn’t bothered to use gloves, and now had brown marks all over his hands. It took him over two weeks to get those marks off his hands, and they were a source of endless poo jokes at his expense.
People were giving me the ‘Sydney will change you!’ routine at work again today. I asked them to define how it would change me. They all went quiet, then one girl said ‘Oh, you know, you’ll…. you’ll do stuff like die your hair purple’. Then the rest of the group all murmured in agreement ‘Yes, yes, purple hair within a few months, mm, yes…’
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We were sitting in the tea room looking out the window at the bus stop at lunch today.
The Angry Brit: I think that guy down there is a graphic design student.
Jolly Man: Why?
The Angry Brit: He has to be. Look at that haircut. And he’s wearing cordurouy pants, as well. He’s got to be a bloody graphics design student.
Jolly Man: You think so, huh?
Me: I think it’s the giant manilla folder and student concession card he’s holding for the bus that gives it away, personally.
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My friends at work think I must be dreading the drive from Torquay to Sydney (which, incidentally, I begin next Tuesday). But driving to Sydney is something I’ve always wanted to do. I love the idea of big road trips - and I’ve always wanted to drive from Torquay to Sydney. It’s difficult to explain. There’s so many joys to it, from dodgy food at dodgy roadhouses to the struggle of finding a decent radio station in rural Australia. I swear, country towns have radio stations with some of the most bizarre formats I’ve ever heard…
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Yesterday at work:
Totally harmless, innocent old lady: Has anyone got a fucking Wagnalls?
Me: What?!!
Totally harmless, innocent old lady: I need a fucking Wagnalls. I can’t figure out what this is all about. A fuckin’ Wagnalls is what I really need.
Me: My God. I’ve never heard words like this come from your mouth, of all people!
I later learnt she was referring to ‘Funk and Wagnalls’, which apparently is an encyclopedia. Why didn’t anyone tell me this beforehand?
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I was talking the other day about types of people who irritate me. There’s another one I thought of - the excessively gloomy person. There was a good example of excessive gloominess on my tea break today, when a group of us were sitting on the comfy couch in the tearoom..
Me: This couch is so comfy, every time I sit on it I feel like falling asleep.
Excessively gloomy woman: Yes, it’s pretty bad isn’t it. Almost dangerous.
Me: Yeah! I could sleep right through a whole day of work.
Excessively gloomy woman: No - I mean, seriously, it’s really bad. It’s a dangerous couch.
Me: Huh?
Excessively gloomy woman: It’s dangerous. Literally.
Me: How so?
Excessively gloomy woman: I knew this guy who sat on a couch like this every day for months. One day he got a big blood clot in his neck.
Me: …………
Excessively gloomy woman: He had a stroke.
Me: …………
Excessively gloomy woman: That’s why I never sit on couches if I can help it.
Me: …you’re not a very balanced person, are you?