4 posts tagged “thoughts: work”
It's that time of year again in The Pass, where the parks are full of Carnies (insert shudder here), the river is filled with racing boats, the skies are full of fireworks (some legal...others - meh), and our house shakes violently when F-15's do aerial antics down the river and over our house...
This is how you know Boatnik has arrived.
If that wasn't exciting enough - we have (pictured above) hairy-footed stallions who bring beer.
Though (insert sad face here) no beer did they deliver as they passed, though the cries were in the air.
Currently, this battalion of Mr. Ed's (And yes, I know - Mr. Ed was not a Clydesdale) are staying at the park near my home in their pretty-puffy white tent. If you thought walking your dog was a chore, try walking these. They came complete with police escort. A sight indeed, just don't travel too close behind...because as beautiful as they are - I'm sure they leave even more lovely presents in their swishy tailed wake.
Oh parade time, I can only imagine the smiles on the faces of those lucky enough to follow these sinewy butes during the parade. Having once followed behind the Sheriff's Posse while playing a violin (seriously, orchestras should not march in parades) there was some serious high-stepping involved, which would've been great if we'd been playing some jaunty little Hoedown number, but no - it was Mozart. Mozart played while leaping over steaming horse patties and our poor cello player who sat and ran, sat and ran, (somebody following him with a chair) sat and ran in an attempt to keep up...then, slipped and fell.
What he slipped in...well...that was best illustrated by the word that slipped past his lips. A four letter word often used when @$#&!'s gone bad (or going down in his case).
Ah, yes.
Welcome to The Pass Clydesdale's.
Welcome to The Pass.
Photos seen below taken by my coworker Bob, who braved the sidewalk full of people who dove in front of his shots. An arse in this frame, a cheek in that, even an officer as the story goes. Bob the Brave - and his photos were far better than the one I took on my cell phone. I was not as brave as Bob...after the first lady threw herself in front of me, I excused myself back to my desk, before I threw her to the ground. ;)
- Nom Nom Nom
Happy Valentines Day...
She rules!
And my tummy <3's her.
"How come you're always so nice?"
I never know quite how to respond. Usually I smile, shrug, and move on.
The reality is - I'm not ALWAYS nice.
The reality is - my mean streak happens just as often as the nice.
I'm not a mean person, per say. But, to be fair, I do tend to have just as many mean thoughts as I do nice. And maybe, just maybe, the reality is - they're not so much mean/rude thoughts, but honest ones. The kind of thoughts that many people don't want to hear. The kind of thoughts that twist people's undies into crude shaped knots and are destined to make 'The List'. The kind of thoughts, that if expressed, you'll continue to pay for when a disagreement ensues and 'Your List of Transgressions' suddenly exposed.
The reality is, I've been conditioned to 'play nice'.
"Mom, she's being a snot. She won't share the bike and it's my turn!"
"Now, now. Play nice. And don't call people snots, even if they may be acting like one."
I was raised on those lectures. Drowned in those lectures: Play nice. Be nice. Act nice. Even if the person you're playing with may not be acting in kind. Set an example.
So, I set an example.
You think I'm nice. Well, that's swell. Because...I think you're an ASS. But, I'll never tell you, your an ASS. And if I do, it'll be done in a more subtle way, like: I hope you have a better day.
And quite frankly, I do.
I hope you have a better day. I hope it's a superfine day. A spectacular day. A day that's so damn good you feel your head might explode. The kind of day that will keep you from traipsing into a place of business and attempting to make anyone who tries helping you want to reach across the desk, wrap fingers gently around your throat, and begin to squeeze - nicely of course. Nice and tightly. Preferably until the angry red in your cheeks turns a grayish-blue.
You can blame it on the heat. Blame it on your shitty luck, your shitty life, your shitty day, your shitty spouse, your shitty dog - whatever is shitty in your life. But don't, I say, don't fork your shittiness onto me or my coworkers and then ask:
"How come you're so nice?"
Because, the reality is - We're not.
You sure as hell aren't.
We're just better at: Playing nice. Being nice. Acting nice. And...not shoving the pointy ends of our shoes up the ASS your head is buried in.
"So, how come we're so nice?"
Because we're setting an example, You Giant Jack Ass!
- Kiss It Where The Sun Don't Shine
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