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[24 Dec 2004|09:00am] |
I see everybody's having their tits named this morning. Mine won't be, they'll have electrodes all over what there is of them after development sent them the wrong way.
Going to scan the bill for the table of twenty nine later. The cunts were waited on hand and foot, and left........nothing. I don't get tips, but if i'm there until HALF PAST FUCKING TEN WASHING UP, I would like to see the people who waited on the cunts all evening earn something for it, especially as we're all late out because of it. Yet more people tipping the arsehole scale towards the rubbish edge of the gene pool.
Or should I care? Probably not, it just sticks a little. I'd like to have put a javelin through the floor from below, randomly jabbing feet. That'd teach 'em.
Drinking at the bar was packed into ten minutes, and was only any real fun when I loosened my hair and my muscles, and started chatting happily with Melanie and Graham.....then found a half bottle of wine to stalk home with, clanking it against the one Graham was carrying. We looked like drunks who don't hide the fact.
Anyway, I have to go and have wires attatched to me. It's like Akira, except it isn't. At all. Now fuck off.
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| Counter stuff |
[24 Dec 2004|09:10am] |
Actual page loads is two hundred and thirty three. Compared to a hundred and thirty seven, that's not a bad ratio at all. I'm going to have a deliberately anal stat analysis later, to show you how the fuck this works. Pardon me for going all colloquial, but this is well fucking interesting...pie charts...fucking graphs....numbers spilling like numerical cunting sewage out of pipes.
Check it out, right. There are people from Latvia, Netherlands, and China reading. That's interesting enough for me to tell you about, and quite internationalfuckingtastic.
More on this later.
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[24 Dec 2004|10:04am] |
Two fucking pieces of paper? Is that all my heart is worth? As I sat there, stickers all over me with wires attatched, and a rather humourless nurse grabbing at paper, I thought how difficult it is was to relax, how noisy the thing was...sounded like an industrial typewriter, for god's sake. Wondered what it would be like if my heart was sitting cross valved on a stool asking me questions about myself whilst I lay there.
Pumping blood moving cunt. It's done now, anyway. I have to wait on the results, although if there's anything disturbing they'll no doubt contact me. What are you doing in there, you organ fuck?
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[24 Dec 2004|10:34am] |
Okay, so it's decided. A fried egg sandwich for breakfast. I'll have to do it on both sides, as I can never tell when yolk is actually cooked or not.
So let's have a go. If it works out okay I might have two. Why has mother put the turkey in the toilet? Okay, it's covered, but I don't feel comfortable havine the damned bird i'll be eating some of sitting there on the floor whilst I coat the side of the bowl with last night's Guiness.
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[24 Dec 2004|10:38am] |
Great stuff. Mould just put the eggs away, and covered the pan with the OIL IN IT, which was heating up. Cheers, mum.
"these are new, those ones are old, so use them from that end first"
Thanks. Whichever, they're all going the same way.
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[24 Dec 2004|11:17am] |
Well, I fried bacon and eggs and ate them in a big fuck you to my complaining heart. Take that you cell sucking loser.
Anyway, Big Brother panto is on. Several big whining babies from various series of the rapidly dispiriting show, essentially having repeated dance lessons and arguments so that they can fill up an hour more of shit television, poking their profiles downward in the process.
So some good comes out of it.
Anyway, i'm off. Christmas Eve still means work.
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[24 Dec 2004|04:14pm] |
Well, that's work over with for Christmas Eve. It was a fucking swamp of pots, pans, shouting chefs, and late cunts ordering fucking starters, mains, and desserts forty five minutes after they had arrived for a table they'd booked at one. Cheers, folks. And to top it all off, they didn't tip whatsoever, which riled everybody else too. And did I mention it was raining, as I trampled about dropping off gifts? Yep, another great Christmas so far.
Well, thankfully only one big shift now remains, and that is the day itself. Everything is prepared, at least. There are a mere sixty seven this year, about ten less than the last, which makes a difference. Tonight i'm out early, as we're having some gathering at the Bell. I intend to get as nicely pissed as possible, without turning the soup to vomit tomorrow.
Four courses. How do this lot pack that lot in? I suppose that's Christmas for you...eat to hide the mental scars.
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[24 Dec 2004|05:47pm] |
Okay, i'm getting the hell out of here....have to go and find Graham Burton and give him a picture of Ian to put in a frame. You don't have to know.
It's not for him, clearly.
Bye then. I doubt i'll be as cheery on the morning post as I was last year as I greeted all with "Merry fucking Christmas, you outer reaches!", but I can only try. I shall now go and get blindly drunk as is the custom...not that I don't do that at all other times anyway. Fuck Christmas, Guiness is for all the year. Now get lost!
Eat the mince pies, cover up the lies.
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| The Christmas Blurty Personals that never made it. |
[24 Dec 2004|05:57pm] |
Name: Santa's little Yelper
What i'd like to find under the tree: "A hedgehog coat, and a key chain featuring pictures of blood relatives smashing their heads out on trees"
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