Happy Wednesday

This little nugget of a picture was sent to me by my ever loving sister, who, I guess, still thinks I am gay, but in a totally butch sort of way.






There have been many bubblings and gurglings going on in my life right now (none of which are associated with said picture). I have, for the last month or two, been extraordinarily pissed off at my job. I finally realized that even though the place was being run into the ground by people with more initials after their name than common sense in their heads, my opinions on the matter only fall on deaf ears and no change can be brought about through either rational suggestion or full out rebellion. Sure, things could run a lot more smoothly, but I am inundated with work (I spend my lunch hour blogging). This is a good thing, even if the work is, at most, trivial. I am doing the technological equivalent of digging a hole in the morning and filling it up in the afternoon. I am loving it.

Why, gentle reader, do I love my job? Why wouldn't I quit such a shitty existence that does nothing to tax my creativity or work ethic, but merely hones my muscle memory and ability to sleep with open eyelids? One word: benefits. Last week, I was brought down by a bug of unknown origin. I took half a day off on Wednesday to go to my primary physician, fifteen miles from where I live. It was the first time I had ever seen him. I have been sick off and on since November of last year.

My primary doctor, being more concerned for my health than those practicing nurses at the drive through diagnosis clinic that I usually frequent, ordered a slew of tests. How did he know which tests to give? Let me include you in the dialog:

Everdapper: So, Doc, what is wrong with me?

Primary Physician in White Coat: Well, you are a big fat guy, so you probably have diabetes, definitely have apnea, and, given the tattoos on your arm, are going to die of hepatitis.

E: Yes, but what is wrong with me right now?

P: Oh, it might be strep. Let me get a culture of your throat. That is, if I can scrap away at the probable inch thick coating of chocolate milk and Doritos you fatties are so used to ingesting every two minutes...

E: But Doc, I hate processed foods. As a matter of fact, because my throat hurts so bad, I have only had a bowl of soup since yes... (Chuckie gags and almost throws up big splash of bile to prove to Doctor that he does not eat Doritos and Chocolate milk. Both give him the wind something terrible).

P: Sorry.

E: No Problem.

P: I'm just going to run these swabs down to the lab for testing. Why don't you follow me down there so we can chip out a chunk or two of your cholesterol soaked blood and prove you have the diabetes and are going to lose a foot unless you switch to splenda.

E: Sounds good.

Yesterday, the blood tests came back. I do not have diabetes, or a hyperactive thyroid. As a matter of fact, I am the healthiest of the fat guys. I can lunge over my cubicle walls from a sitting position. And, after a brief three hour nap, can repeat the feat. This is the point of why my job is the greatest. There is absolutely no stress unless it is misdirected to the chaos that is government service. Also, I have taken a grand total of twelve and a half days off of work this year alone. I was totally paid for all of them and I could take another two weeks off before I would have to dip into my vacation days.

Holy shit, I have vacation days. I could take a vacation day to go see the doctor to get a prescription for Viagra. The prescription and the office visit would probably cost me a grand total of twelve dollars. Not that I need any sort of male performance enhancement, but the whiskey dick sometimes rears its ugly head. I will ponder this on my second 15 minute break of the day. Now, if you will excuse me, I have three hours worth of meaningless tasks to do before I can go home.