Today I wrote an email to some of my head honchos at Weasel Central.
Nothing big really.
I just admitted, in writing, that I was manhandling (I kept wanting to type "molesting", but that sounded so, y'know, WRONG) a case in the worst way EVER. A case that these head honcho goons kept dumping on my desk every time I tried to escalate to them. Y'know, that kinda mishandling that only happens in sitcoms ("hey, I wonder what happens if I push the RED button"). I basically told them that if I continued calling this poor, angry man on behalf of the company I was pretty sure he'd either a)sue us; b)show up with his "little friend" (said a la Pacino in Scarface) or c)spit moth balls (I dunno, I needed a third thing, I'm tired, leave me alone).
I suspect they'll tell me to call him again and just apologize for my stupidity and offer him a Weasel Central pen. Heh.
Dummies.
In other news, I got to hear a code fucking red at the hospital this morning. It was weird, cause the doctor dealing with me kept talking like NOTHING was going on. Those piercing alarms? Nothing at all. The slightly panicked sounding announcement? Fuggedaboutit. He kept making rather nonchalant banter and all the while I'm trying to remember where all the bloody emergency exits are, so I'm not really listening to him & probably told him that I'm really a rhesus monkey, and that no, I do not enjoy Proust, but who knows.
I could be wrong.
And sleep deprived.
Horribly, horribly sleep deprived.
Oh, and addicted to that bloody PS2 soccer game. I've almost mastered it. Though I must protest that Luis Figo is not in it. *sigh*
Right. That post went terribly wrong. I'm sorry. So very sorry. Next post I'll leave to the cats. I'm sure they'll come up with something a little more coherent.