We have a co-worker whose last name is Love. One of my former co-workers always called him Dr. Love. Well, she tried this out once and managed:
"Mr. Dr. Love"
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Dani-ism #3
She was talking about an "incident" where she was doing her MP duty and pulling someone over who was speeding inside the base. The guy mouthed off to her partner and they pulled their weapons, demanding he step out of his vehicle, put his hands on his head, etc. She described this as:
"I was being all rhetorical"
"I was being all rhetorical"
Genesis
Security guards aren’t supposed to have
arch-nemeses. Apparently mine never got the memo.
She is no Wicked Witch of the West to my Dorothy Gale. She is no Wil Wheaton to my Sheldon Cooper. She is no Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes.
It began two and a half years ago, though I wasn't aware of it at the time. The first time we met, she was talking about ghost hunting and I thought I could have a new friend at work. We got to talking. I should have heard the Klaxon blaring its warning when she gave me a note saying I reminded her of her dead friend who had Asperger syndrome (a relatively mild form of autism).
She told me stories about the atrocities during her deployment to Afghanistan. She flaunted her MP work and told tales of the dastardly side of human nature. She coyly wove tales of her academic and athletic prowess. I drank it all in naively for I am no liar and never assume others to be without considerable cause.
I am a fly on the wall, all quiet and unassuming in my corner. Little did my future arch-nemesis realize that I heard her contradictory stories told to other co-workers. To one she said she would beat on muggers. To another she said she would be terrified. To yet others, she avoided the subject like the plague. Doubt began to creep in.
I asked once if she'd seen any camel spiders while in Afghanistan. She proceeded to tell me how she dealt with one, including discharging a firearm inside a military compound while on active duty. From then on, camel spiders were a staple of her Afghanistan recollections.
I have come to find she is nothing but lies and fakery. She is ignorant, something I can grudgingly forgive, but also astronomically stupid. I have since blocked out the trauma that led me to declaring we were never to speak unless it was about work. I can almost time the cycles of her forgetting (or maybe hoping I forgot) and having to be reminded. Every word that comes out of her putrid, vile brain makes me hate her more and oh does she talk. Silence and being deprived of constant praise and validation from others make her shrivel like a salted slug. She can talk for hours on the phone, torturing me with the worst half of the conversation.
I am absolutely convinced that she has stolen years of my life through high blood pressure and may even kill me by causing an aneurysm.
This blog will chronicle one aspect of the horror I and others must endure. Here I will record the vast supply of Dani-isms I have collected. They are utterly heinous mutilations of the art of communication and the English language.
Read them and weep for humanity.
She is no Wicked Witch of the West to my Dorothy Gale. She is no Wil Wheaton to my Sheldon Cooper. She is no Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes.
It began two and a half years ago, though I wasn't aware of it at the time. The first time we met, she was talking about ghost hunting and I thought I could have a new friend at work. We got to talking. I should have heard the Klaxon blaring its warning when she gave me a note saying I reminded her of her dead friend who had Asperger syndrome (a relatively mild form of autism).
She told me stories about the atrocities during her deployment to Afghanistan. She flaunted her MP work and told tales of the dastardly side of human nature. She coyly wove tales of her academic and athletic prowess. I drank it all in naively for I am no liar and never assume others to be without considerable cause.
I am a fly on the wall, all quiet and unassuming in my corner. Little did my future arch-nemesis realize that I heard her contradictory stories told to other co-workers. To one she said she would beat on muggers. To another she said she would be terrified. To yet others, she avoided the subject like the plague. Doubt began to creep in.
I asked once if she'd seen any camel spiders while in Afghanistan. She proceeded to tell me how she dealt with one, including discharging a firearm inside a military compound while on active duty. From then on, camel spiders were a staple of her Afghanistan recollections.
I have come to find she is nothing but lies and fakery. She is ignorant, something I can grudgingly forgive, but also astronomically stupid. I have since blocked out the trauma that led me to declaring we were never to speak unless it was about work. I can almost time the cycles of her forgetting (or maybe hoping I forgot) and having to be reminded. Every word that comes out of her putrid, vile brain makes me hate her more and oh does she talk. Silence and being deprived of constant praise and validation from others make her shrivel like a salted slug. She can talk for hours on the phone, torturing me with the worst half of the conversation.
I am absolutely convinced that she has stolen years of my life through high blood pressure and may even kill me by causing an aneurysm.
This blog will chronicle one aspect of the horror I and others must endure. Here I will record the vast supply of Dani-isms I have collected. They are utterly heinous mutilations of the art of communication and the English language.
Read them and weep for humanity.
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