Monday, August 04, 2008
Hey! You! It's Douche Week!
Safe for work, just turn the volume down or wear stylish headphones. For the record, we love Jersey, home of George Washington's march from Trenton to our stomping grounds, and home of hilarity you can't make up and put on the YouTubes.
"Jewville," says Jen, 21, who then proceeds to, well, you watch! You see!
Yikes. Again. Again with the yikes.
Anyone else want to nominate a Douchebag Line of the Week? We think Jen wins. Big, fake-tanned, gel-laden hands down. Jen wins.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Definition of the Douche Chills
So yeah, the worst we ever did is maybe say, "Are you kidding (us)?" when Wendy the Airport Consultant stood us up like eight years ago and we were hanging up the phone and she totally heard us and our exasperation.
But no. We never did this.
Yikes.
But no. We never did this.
Yikes.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Threefer Friday!
And yeah, we're back on the Twitter now. Check it under Awesomeness.
Stay informed!
Stay alert!
Stay alive!
Stay informed!
Stay alert!
Stay alive!
Quiet time
So without going into lots of detail, we were sitting in the stall yesterday newspaperless and just looking for a timeout from the day. *Sigh* Peace and tranquility in the bath--
"(OMS)! Is that you? I can tell by those funky shoes you wear!"
Would our coworker really ID us in our private time and then proceed to --
"So I was thinkin'... what is your favorite all-time concert? Mine was Bruce at the blah blah blah sold tickets blah blah blah sat in the first row behind the stage blah blah blah..."
"Mmm-hmmm," we said, mouth agape.
He proceeded to talk for the next five minutes straight.
And then he left.
We took a deep breath and prepared to resume our day.
And then he came back.
"I guess I should wash my hands, right?" he said, before launching into a different diatribe about God knows what and wear Manny might end up. At this point, the stall wasn't even remotely fun anymore.
So he left. We washed our hands. And literally seconds later, we passed each other in the hallway. Ew. Awk. Ward. Doesn't even begin to describe the violation we felt.
BATHROOM TIME IS PRIVATE TIME!
"(OMS)! Is that you? I can tell by those funky shoes you wear!"
Would our coworker really ID us in our private time and then proceed to --
"So I was thinkin'... what is your favorite all-time concert? Mine was Bruce at the blah blah blah sold tickets blah blah blah sat in the first row behind the stage blah blah blah..."
"Mmm-hmmm," we said, mouth agape.
He proceeded to talk for the next five minutes straight.
And then he left.
We took a deep breath and prepared to resume our day.
And then he came back.
"I guess I should wash my hands, right?" he said, before launching into a different diatribe about God knows what and wear Manny might end up. At this point, the stall wasn't even remotely fun anymore.
So he left. We washed our hands. And literally seconds later, we passed each other in the hallway. Ew. Awk. Ward. Doesn't even begin to describe the violation we felt.
BATHROOM TIME IS PRIVATE TIME!
Full disclosure
Women are *not* objects.
But we do love us some Guinness. And therein lies the conflict.
Safe for work, sort of.
But we do love us some Guinness. And therein lies the conflict.
Safe for work, sort of.
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