__ / \ /____\ .________/][][][\_______. \__________ __________/ ! / /!/ //!\ \! __!_\ ! / /_/ // \\ \ \_____ / __ // /\ \\ \_____ \ / / / // ____ \\ \____\ \ /_/ /_//_/ \_\\_\______\ T-File_15____November_26_2005 - Greasy Turds of Spite - By Emoticon _______________________________________________________________________________________ \ HATS: HATS Are Totally Sweet ________________________________________/ \___________________________________________/ "Because tastelessness is a virtue." _______________________________________________________________________________________ Fucking shit man, the cable's been out for three days. I called Cartel \ Communications on Sunday morning, pissed off, and finally, three days later, this | greasy little turd shows up in the Company Van. | He comes in and takes a look at my sad blinking modem and tells me to reboot my | computer. What the fuck is with these "technicians" and their fetishistic passion for | rebooting? Maybe it's some Windows thing. Whatever. I didn't do it. (Linux 2.6 on a | Pentium III takes a while to boot up and I don't shut down any of my systems without | good reason - especially not at the whim of some ugly little turd.) | He looked through a very official looking spiral bound book, probably trying to | find out what the protocol was for handling such a hostile customer, and after some | uneasiness went outside to check the lines - but not before dropping a festering shit | bomb in my bathroom. < He asked to use the crapper where he gave birth to what must have been a shit the | size of bowling ball, purely out of spite. Reluctantly the little turd waddled out, | ten pounds lighter and got to work on the lines. I pulled on the HAZMAT suit and went | to work cleaning up the bathroom. < A couple hours later and the ugly little turd had fixed the problem, at least | temporarily. He was sitting in my room, lackadaisically shuffling through some | paperwork for me to sign. He mentioned that when he ran some new temp cables, he went | around my driveway instead of across it because he didn't want it to "look retarded-" a | comment for which he immediately apologized, as emphatically as if he thought perhaps I | had an extra chromosome. < "So you go to West College?" he asked, eying some paper on my desk; I nodded. "Good | stuff!" The turd prattled on about the fraternities, which ones had the best parties, | but said he never went to college, in a somewhat satisfied tone. He nostalgically | reminisced about missing his chance to go to school, and confided in me that when he | worked in New York as a contractor he had 20 buildings "under his name," whatever that | means, but now his job was much less stressful. < Then the conversation got really interesting when he saw my X-Box, which had been | dormant for a couple of years, and started telling me about how great "360" is, and | that it was well worth the 16 hours he had spent in line just a day before. < "Give me the fucking paperwork, you disgusting little turd! Let me sign it and get | the fuck out of my house. Go play your fucking video game in the solitude of your | parents' basement and let the world exist without you, you greasy little cretin!" < That's what I should have said. Instead I sat, dumbfounded, listening to his | pathetic rambling, signing the forms as they came. Sometime later he shook my hand, | before I could avoid his disgusting appendage, and left. I felt as if I had been stink-| palmed - times a million. < I nearly scalded my hand exorcising it of the certainly demonic foulness with which | that vessel of putridness of a cable-guy had been cursed. While scrubbing relentlessly | I noticed the stench of the spiteful turd had returned to fill the room, and was now | becoming increasingly bold. The smell was denser and more tangible than the counter, | than the faucet, than my very own hand. I could reach out and touch the stink which | was now far beyond the realm of earthly potency. < I left and returned with my cleaning gear, to begin scrubbing. When I lifted the | lid of my once innocent toilet, the horrific imagery inside that bowl was almost | unspeakable, and certainly unbelievable. Inside the old American Standard was a bloody | fetus made entirely out of shit, but unmistakable nonetheless. Its umbilical chord | extended into the infinity of my plumbing as it bobbed, lifeless in the ceramic womb. | _______________________________________________________________________________________/