Day Off

I decided today that I was going to take Wednesday off because my last paycheck stub showed the following balances:

Vacation time: 232.09 hours (5 weeks, 5 days, 4 hours, 55.56 minutes)
Sick time: 40 hours (1 week)
Personal Days: 16 hours (2 days)

Insane. And, I still have another 1.5 weeks to accrue this year. So, I went up to my boss and told him. He was cool about it.

I think I’ll go get my hair cut, as it’s about a week and a half overdue. Maybe get the oil changed on my truck as well. I have a load of old VHS movies I’ll take to Goodwill, along with some clothes. The rest of the day I’ll spend on the comic book database application that I’m working on.

Sick Thought of the Day: Penis Blisters

Habitual Mastication

Last night I watched about a third of Tron with Millard. For some fucked up reason, the DVD freaked out (twice) at the point where Flynn is talking to RAM in the cell block right after he gets digitized. Oddly enough, the digitizing of the disc screwed up, and all these odd colored blocks were all over the screen while the inverted movie played in the background. Like I said, fucked up.

So, after getting sick of that real quick, I popped in Spider-man and we watched that. Millard fell asleep on the couch…

After the first snore, I slowly approached him like the prowling cat that I am. First came the sweaty palms, then the salivation as I touched the zipper on his pants. He mumbled something in his sleep and shifted, but didn’t wake.

My eyes glazed over. As I unzipped his pants, I dropped my zipper too. The both of us were going to have a religious experience together. Only one of us would be awake to know it, though.

My thighs pulsed with ratcheting of each tooth on his fly. At one point, I passed out only to wake up to the cat dry-humping my leg as I lay on the floor next to the couch. I only lost about ten minutes, and could still complete my mission before the sun came up.

Click, click, click. Then, victory.

My eyes flared open as his monster, elephant-trunk like cock flopped out onto the coffee table, cracking one of the legs with the weight. I laughed aloud and then nervously caught myself before I irritated the sleeping pachyderm. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife, and, with one hand buried up to my wrist in my Hanes, sprinted back to the living room. Flipping the butter knife over so I was holding the blade, I poked the snake with the handle of the knife. I also smacked it a couple of times.

So, I bit it.

I awoke three hours later with a headache. The butter knife lay on the floor next to the couch, and Millard was asleep, pants fully fastened.

I’m not sure if it was a dream or real. I don’t think I should tell anyone, just in case.

Sick Thought of the Day: Did you not read the above blog?

Dentists, Lights, and Eight Hours of Insanity

So, today was another day in the life of Chewbode. I sat through eight hours of insanity. Let me explain what insanity is:

  • Doing something that you didn’t realize you were going to do until someone (usually a more powerful or higher status person than you) tells you that you are going to do something, and you know nothing about what you are going to do. Oh, and you’re doing it tomorrow. For eight hours. That’s insane.
  • Pretending that you like doing something for the sake of projecting an image to others, who probably don’t care whether you like it or not, but you don’t know if they care, and you still want to impress “just to be on the safe side”. Insane.
  • Telling yourself that Cheeze-Its are only a “recreational hobby”.
  • Complaining for 5 years that “this is broken”, or “this needs adjustment”, and being ignored. As soon as the guy next to you mentions it, it gets taken care of. I am a master at invisibility! Insane.
  • Getting slowly finger-fucked by the establishment for years, then being told you are not their type. Insane.
  • Trying to find the part number for your car’s rear taillight’s light bulb. Insane.

NOTICE: The above commentary in no way reflects the author’s, displease, dislike, disdain, or any other types of dis- as it relates to work, his boss, his co-workers, the people he despises, or the bacon-serving fuckers that think they know what the fuck is going on in the author’s life, but don’t, and frankly, don’t come off as “knowing” well enough to fool the author. In fact, they insult the author’s intellect. Fucks.

Ahh. That’s better. Moving on…

My wife calls me today at work and tells me that another Milk Dud has wrestled another crown from her mouth. So, she’ll be taking the day off tomorrow to try to get a hold of a dentist that can glue that thing back on. Not a good way to start the weekend, indeed. Good luck to her in her hunt. I hope it gets fixed before the weekend, for her sake.


Sick Thought of the Day: Razors unzipping the nipple.