Oh shit, I wish those Steelers played every night because my boss Kim and Eleanore are entertaining the everloving piss out of me, watching their little game feed on the computer.

And then Eleanore gets angry and starts yelling, “You fucking r****ds!

You fucking pop-eyed Tomlin!” and I don’t know who she’s talking about but it’s making my chest hurt from laughing-strain.

Kim just jumped up and almost missed her chair when she went to sit back down.

Football rules. At work, at least.

They do not care about us evening shifters here at work and we are left behind in the wake of the dayshifters to shiver and shake in the chilly office air.

So I have taken to wearing a hat. Indoors. At work. Constantly. Keeps the heat in.
Also, Henry tried to send me a picture of his weener and I thought it was poop. I can’t believe he thought I was the type of girl who would appreciate camera-phoned genitalia.

Also part 2: I am going to print out my Franklin’s Bar story and staple it to telephone poles around town and then wait and see if something happens. I hope something happens. Like, the townies erupting into a torch-bearing revolt.

On a normal Friday evening at work, I act like a half-lit reject from a GED testing facility. But on a Friday night where my belly is made full with Thai food and my BFF is expected to be perched upon my porch by the time I return home, I’m all kinds of riled up. Every last thing has me doubled over in laughter:

Thai Place charged Joe $2.25 for a can of Pepsi.

My boss Kim told me I’m mean and she doesn’t know how people put up with me, in response to my tale of metaphorically kneeing a Canuck in the balls and still managing to keep him in love with me.

Eleanore asked me, “Erin, what’s the matter with you tonight?” which I believe is her polite way of saying, “STFU honky.”

I got Collin the New Guy to call me Your Majesty.

In order to retrieve a bag of my favorite honey wheat pretzels, I had to embark on an excavation clear across the building, to the other break room. The problem is that on Fridays, the cleaning people are off, so the guards shut off most of the lights back there. I ended up jogging the whole way back, in near dark, hands clutching my flopping boobs and chanting, “Oh my Christ, MSA rapist” over and over. (MSA is the company’s name, not some brand new Internet acronym whose memo missed your desk.) Once I returned to my desk, I was able to remove my coat, having been warmed up by my eschewal of MSA’s imaginary rapist.

It’s a good thing I can run in heels.

I really hope I have this job for awhile. I quite like it. Well, except when Eleanore is in a bad mood and slamming down the phone and humming gutterally along to gangsta rap (west coast, whatwhat), or yelling at her daughter on the phone while gumming a handful of popcorn.

Those things I could take or leave. Or just leave; I’d prefer not to take them. The popcorn, I might.