Beth Labonte's Blog, page 18
May 26, 2011
Judgment Day a Clerical Error, Not Word of God, Reveals Secretary
Alright, I hate to admit this. But Harold's been taking a lot of heat and I feel kind of responsible, so let me just get this off my chest.
May 21, 2011 was a typo.
It was a Monday morning and Harold brought me over this crumpled up sheet of notebook paper that literally looked like he had pulled it out of a McDonald's to-go bag. He's 89 years old, you know, and sometimes he gets confused. One time he gave me a plastic cup from Six Flags and told me it was the Holy Grail.
"What the f#ck is this, Harold?" I asked him. Traffic had been an absolute bitch, and I really just wasn't in the mood. I mean, the page was totally filled with chicken scratch - even into the margins. Usually I'm pretty good at deciphering his writing, like when he asks me to type up a blurb on annihilation. I can always pretty much tell the difference between "complete obliteration of all mankind" and "writhing helplessly in eternal torment," even if his "n's" sometimes look like "u's." It just takes a little bit of practice.
But this thing was ridiculous. It was all kinds of crazy calculations that he must have spent the entire weekend working on even though it was 75 degrees outside. He was somehow multiplying words like Trombonement (or maybe Atonement?) with other words like Heaven and then squaring whatever bat shit crazy number he had come up with. At least I think he squared it. Maybe he just drew a little seagull next to it. It's hard to know for sure since my boss is a stark raving lunatic. In any case, when I got to the end of the page it said:
Judgment Day =
But where it had a date, he had crossed it out and rewritten a new one over it. But then he crossed that one out too, and he circled it and drew an arrow pointing to the back of the page, and then on the back of the page he crossed that date out and drew another arrow to the front of the page, and then I had to turn the whole thing sideways and follow another arrow down to the footer and there, in between a note about the Great Tribulation and something about his car being ready for pick up at Toyota, please see Rick in the service department, it said "May 21, 2011."
Except he had spilled some kind of dark beverage all over it, so maybe it really said March 21, 2017 or May 21, 1986, or maybe it said "Judgment Day = 6 rolls of toilet paper from Target." I really couldn't tell. I was so frustrated by that point that I was pretty much just praying for the world to end as soon as possible. Unfortunately it didn't, and the next thing I knew Harold had grabbed the paper from my printer and was announcing to the world whatever date I had half-assedly typed.
Now normally I would apologize to those of you who gave away all your earthly possessions on account of my mistake. But unfortunately, they do not pay me enough to care.
Wait...when?
May 21, 2011 was a typo.
It was a Monday morning and Harold brought me over this crumpled up sheet of notebook paper that literally looked like he had pulled it out of a McDonald's to-go bag. He's 89 years old, you know, and sometimes he gets confused. One time he gave me a plastic cup from Six Flags and told me it was the Holy Grail.
"What the f#ck is this, Harold?" I asked him. Traffic had been an absolute bitch, and I really just wasn't in the mood. I mean, the page was totally filled with chicken scratch - even into the margins. Usually I'm pretty good at deciphering his writing, like when he asks me to type up a blurb on annihilation. I can always pretty much tell the difference between "complete obliteration of all mankind" and "writhing helplessly in eternal torment," even if his "n's" sometimes look like "u's." It just takes a little bit of practice.
But this thing was ridiculous. It was all kinds of crazy calculations that he must have spent the entire weekend working on even though it was 75 degrees outside. He was somehow multiplying words like Trombonement (or maybe Atonement?) with other words like Heaven and then squaring whatever bat shit crazy number he had come up with. At least I think he squared it. Maybe he just drew a little seagull next to it. It's hard to know for sure since my boss is a stark raving lunatic. In any case, when I got to the end of the page it said:
Judgment Day =
But where it had a date, he had crossed it out and rewritten a new one over it. But then he crossed that one out too, and he circled it and drew an arrow pointing to the back of the page, and then on the back of the page he crossed that date out and drew another arrow to the front of the page, and then I had to turn the whole thing sideways and follow another arrow down to the footer and there, in between a note about the Great Tribulation and something about his car being ready for pick up at Toyota, please see Rick in the service department, it said "May 21, 2011."
Except he had spilled some kind of dark beverage all over it, so maybe it really said March 21, 2017 or May 21, 1986, or maybe it said "Judgment Day = 6 rolls of toilet paper from Target." I really couldn't tell. I was so frustrated by that point that I was pretty much just praying for the world to end as soon as possible. Unfortunately it didn't, and the next thing I knew Harold had grabbed the paper from my printer and was announcing to the world whatever date I had half-assedly typed.
Now normally I would apologize to those of you who gave away all your earthly possessions on account of my mistake. But unfortunately, they do not pay me enough to care.
Wait...when?
May 25, 2011
Gross
May 19, 2011
Yeah, Um, About Saturday...
So Saturday is Doomsday, huh? Judgement Day, The Rapture, that stuff that started happening after Frodo threw the ring into Mount Doom. Whatever you want to call it, the world is supposedly coming to an end.
So let me ask you this: why the hell couldn't it wait until Monday?
Come on, man! This week has been ridiculously irritating for me. Between Snorks Phelgmstein and the Great Sudafed Famine of 2011 a few rows over, this awful weather, and the influx of people saying "knock-knock" before entering my cubicle, I'm at the end of my rope. All week I've been counting down until the weekend when I can relax and take my kid to the zoo, or watch Lifetime movies. But how am I supposed to concentrate on a movie when all of my pious neighbors are rapturously floating past my window? That's going to be distracting. Nevermind when the lava starts pouring through my skylights. I mean, I have the ability to pause live t.v., but Charter barely even works on a good day.
I get two stinking days off. TWO. And now, depending on what time we are all scheduled to perish on Saturday, I'm going to get like half a day at most.
Now just imagine The Rapture happening on Monday instead. You drag yourself out of bed, get stuck in traffic, and then, just as you spill some coffee because you drove over that same roadkill that's been in the middle of Route 20 since last Wednesday, it happens. Trumpets start going off, angels are shooting out of trees, and look! Over there! F-ing A! There goes your office building, swallowed up by a belching, sulfurous, lake of fire. Now that would be Heaven.
But apparently if you were a Hebrew school drop-out, there aren't any favors coming to you during the end of days.
So, instead, I created this lovely Someecard for you to send to your friends, coworkers, and those people handing out pamphlets at the train station. I shall have the last laugh after all. Well, until Saturday.
Click to send this card
So let me ask you this: why the hell couldn't it wait until Monday?
Come on, man! This week has been ridiculously irritating for me. Between Snorks Phelgmstein and the Great Sudafed Famine of 2011 a few rows over, this awful weather, and the influx of people saying "knock-knock" before entering my cubicle, I'm at the end of my rope. All week I've been counting down until the weekend when I can relax and take my kid to the zoo, or watch Lifetime movies. But how am I supposed to concentrate on a movie when all of my pious neighbors are rapturously floating past my window? That's going to be distracting. Nevermind when the lava starts pouring through my skylights. I mean, I have the ability to pause live t.v., but Charter barely even works on a good day.
I get two stinking days off. TWO. And now, depending on what time we are all scheduled to perish on Saturday, I'm going to get like half a day at most.
Now just imagine The Rapture happening on Monday instead. You drag yourself out of bed, get stuck in traffic, and then, just as you spill some coffee because you drove over that same roadkill that's been in the middle of Route 20 since last Wednesday, it happens. Trumpets start going off, angels are shooting out of trees, and look! Over there! F-ing A! There goes your office building, swallowed up by a belching, sulfurous, lake of fire. Now that would be Heaven.
But apparently if you were a Hebrew school drop-out, there aren't any favors coming to you during the end of days.
So, instead, I created this lovely Someecard for you to send to your friends, coworkers, and those people handing out pamphlets at the train station. I shall have the last laugh after all. Well, until Saturday.
Click to send this card
May 16, 2011
Dreams
Before falling asleep last night I asked a higher power to grant me some sort of dream that might give me an idea for my next book. As you may or may not know, Stephenie Meyer's idea for Twilight was based on a dream that she had.
So I went to sleep fully expecting to awaken to the idea of a lifetime - action figures of my characters already in production in Taiwan, and me already rehearsing my one line as "Gas Station Attendant" when they cleverly sneak me into one of the scenes in the movie.
Well, you know what I dreamed about? Ordering a fucking turkey sandwich at Subway.
Nugnuts
Dear Whoever Left a Box of Chicken McNuggets in the Office Refrigerator All Weekend:
Chicken McNuggets have a shelf life of about 15 minutes.
Sincerely,
Common Knowledge
May 6, 2011
Spring is in the Recirculated Air
The nice warm weather is here at last,
Snowy commutes, a thing of the past.
Sleeves rolled up and sunroof down,
Sunglasses on, we peel outta town.
We stop for iced coffee, a morning perk,
Not even thinking that we're headed for work.
Britney's blasting and we're singing along,
But eventually we notice there's something quite wrong.
That thing, up ahead, what is that?
Shit.
The office has finally come into view,
Only one more traffic light between it and you.
You think and you ponder for any way out,
You panic and sweat and you finally shout:
Son of a bitch!!!
Do I really have to go in there?
We park our car in the lot and then sit there in it,
Listening to the radio for just one more minute.
At 8:37 we open the door,
"Goodbye Mr. Sun, I shall see you no more."
:(
We trudge up the stairs to a day full of shit,
80 degrees in the lobby, but 50 where you sit.
Your skin that was warmed by that glorious weather,
Now stuffed inside a gross cardigan sweater.
F*ck you HVAC.
So we purchase at Target some coconut lotion,
To remind us of beaches and days by the ocean.
And to make the torture more complete,
Bob Marley on our iPods…on repeat.
We think these things will help curtail,
The agony of our windowless jail.
These little reminders of beautiful places,
Thousands of miles from these hideous faces.
No offense.
So what to do but mope and pout?
Retirement age is too far out.
Lottery tickets are religiously bought,
Too bad Prince William's tied the knot.
Harry is still available!
So what if he dressed up like a Nazi for Halloween?
We could QUIT OUR JOB.
I guess we'll have to make it through,
With coffee runs and lunch til two.
Come in late and sneak out early,
Try to stop me, Boss. You ain't that burly.
Sigh.
Whoever thought you'd feel most alive,
During your Monday morning drive?
Snowy commutes, a thing of the past.
Sleeves rolled up and sunroof down,
Sunglasses on, we peel outta town.
We stop for iced coffee, a morning perk,
Not even thinking that we're headed for work.
Britney's blasting and we're singing along,
But eventually we notice there's something quite wrong.
That thing, up ahead, what is that?
Shit.
The office has finally come into view,
Only one more traffic light between it and you.
You think and you ponder for any way out,
You panic and sweat and you finally shout:
Son of a bitch!!!
Do I really have to go in there?
We park our car in the lot and then sit there in it,
Listening to the radio for just one more minute.
At 8:37 we open the door,
"Goodbye Mr. Sun, I shall see you no more."
:(
We trudge up the stairs to a day full of shit,
80 degrees in the lobby, but 50 where you sit.
Your skin that was warmed by that glorious weather,
Now stuffed inside a gross cardigan sweater.
F*ck you HVAC.
So we purchase at Target some coconut lotion,
To remind us of beaches and days by the ocean.
And to make the torture more complete,
Bob Marley on our iPods…on repeat.
We think these things will help curtail,
The agony of our windowless jail.
These little reminders of beautiful places,
Thousands of miles from these hideous faces.
No offense.
So what to do but mope and pout?
Retirement age is too far out.
Lottery tickets are religiously bought,
Too bad Prince William's tied the knot.
Harry is still available!
So what if he dressed up like a Nazi for Halloween?
We could QUIT OUR JOB.
I guess we'll have to make it through,
With coffee runs and lunch til two.
Come in late and sneak out early,
Try to stop me, Boss. You ain't that burly.
Sigh.
Whoever thought you'd feel most alive,
During your Monday morning drive?
