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12:31 pm | 16 December 2004 | A TRADITIONAL HAM SANDWICH!

Sinister
In my line of work I sometimes have to make description captions and keywords for photographs. Now, with the extreme synthesis between image and word with which I am gifted (curse! it's a curse!) this is about as hard as nose-picking. Apparently other hoes before me had a hard time doing fifty images in a day, but I can do that many in two hours, slack-jawed and lazy-eyed, rocked back in my decidedly un-chiropractically-sound SlackaLounger chair, listening to old This American Lifes and eating anything I can. Which is not said from braggadocio, but which is merely preface to this point: I get real bored doing it, and frequently look for ways to "jazz" it up that are probably funny to only me, such as:

A traditional ham sandwich conspires with ridged potato chips.
Throw cushions in sinister tones of sage and bronzeberry frost* recline defiantly.
An eclectic décor scheme shows impressive bravado.
A snowbound rural landscape embodies cabin fever.
I figure I won't really get "caught" or "in trouble," and if someone does notice, I can blame it on the intern. Heh.

Favourite office joke of the week:
Boss's tin of kipper fillets. Ha ha ha omg blurf.

Greatest coworker story of our times
"My grandparents used to have a stuffed deer head, and the mouth was stitched shut, you know? When we were kids we would practice making out on it. Like we'd be all, unhhhnnh." (rubs up against doorframe)

Likey
If you, like me, cannot burp, then you are used to pouring soda (or, as we call it, pop) out into glasses from a bit of height in order to de-carbonate it as much as you can, to forestall the otherwise inevitably sonorous, odorless toots that might result. I am not a big pop or beer drinker period, but today I decanted a pilfered Pepsi One into a tall paper cup--you know, the fairground kind--and I really loved the almost furry, shaggy sound the liquid made as I did so. That is all.

Since I have already gone there
I was once told by an old roommate that a fart I had unintentionally produced was allegedly mechanical or factory-like in sound, you know, really industrial, and have wanted since then to have a show called Les Pets Mécaniques. That's all.

Pet?
Yes, it's French for "fart." Like "petard." You know: dropping the bomb. Pet, clm.

Psst: Did you remember to enter the monkey contest?

. . . . . . .

*Also a David Cross reference.


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