You know what burns my biscuits?
(Wait. Hold on. Who the hell am I, Flo from Alice? Granny Frigging Clampett? Start this shit over. Take two… and… action!)
You know what gets my boxers in a knot?
(Much better. Let’s continue.)
Anyway, among the myriad of nerve-tweaking things that the assorted cluebags around me do on a regular basis is this: many of them say things that they don’t really mean.
Now, I realize that sometimes it can’t be avoided. Occasionally, you have to pretzel up the truth a little to save someone’s feelings, or preserve your job, or avoid giving away where the bodies are hidden. And that’s fine — I’m down with that.
But there are also times when people just lie, bald-faced and remorseless, for no damned good reason. And that pisses me off. Bald-faced skinbags, anyway.
I’ll give you an example. Just today, at the office, I told someone that I was going to try tackling a particularly thorny and complicated problem. Something that I and others have put off for a while now, because you’d have to be insane, drunk, and possessed by the ghost of chubby Anna Nicole Smith to even think about getting yourself ass-deep into this train wreck of a project.
(Yeah, yeah, I know — Anna Nicole’s not dead. But ‘Big Anna‘ is, right? Surely now that she’s back to sex kitten sveltitude, she’d never let herself go like that again, right? She’s a smart girl, after all. Right?
Heh. I almost got through typing that with a straight face. Hee! Oh, I just slay myself sometimes.)
Anyway, I mentioned that I was gonna take one for the team, and put my rep, my job, and my sanity on the line, so that the freeloading assmagnets in the office can get back to playing Minesweeper and picking lint out of their tummy buttons.
(Okay, okay, I kid. Actually, most of the people at the old workplace are just peachy — sweet, competent, helpful bunch of folks, really. And I don’t even know what ‘assmagnet’ means, exactly. So I take all that back.
Of course, the ‘lint thing’ stands. Seriously, I love those guys, but I am so not shaking their hands. Ew.)
All right, back to the friggin’ story already.
So, I mentioned my plan to tackle this convoluted ball of crap, and do you know what the guy I was talking to said? Can you imagine what his response was? Come on — take a wild guess, just for turds and titters.
No? All right, I’ll tell you. He said:
‘More power to you.‘
‘More power to you.’ ‘More power’. ‘To you’. Douchenougat.
Because, you see, the bastard didn’t mean it. It’d be fine to sincerely wish me more power, but that’s not what he meant. And that’s why he’s a big fat porkslapper in my book.
And what’s worse, nobody ever means ‘more power to you’. It’s never on the up-and-up; it’s just one of those horrible, nasty things you say when you want to sound nice, but you don’t want to be nice. Like ‘Hey, nice try, anyway‘, or ‘Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be‘. Or even ‘It’s okay — it happens to every guy sometimes‘. Bitches.
Well, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. If you’re gonna say something, then I think you oughta damned well mean it. Next time somebody tells me ‘more power to ya, buddy‘, then I want some goddamned follow-through. Give me a promotion, or hire me a henchman or something. Gimme a seat on the city council — at least I could get some potholes fixed, or rezone my living room as a pants-optional biergarten or something. That’s the sort of thing they do on councils, right?
Ah, well. All this bitching has settled me down a bit. Sure, that guy can still go bump his own ugly, but I think I’m pretty well over it. Suddenly, I’m more interested in strapping on some lederhosen and grabbing a beer. Or shoveling some tar into that hole in the street out front. Man, this power shit really goes to your head fast, huh?Permalink | 2 Comments