On why Drunken Angel is better than you and other rants.

Today started out as simple as yesterday with one exception, I awoke to the pretentious sounds of the Sci-Fi channel. After repeatedly burning myself with my "wake-up cigarette", involuntarily brought on by a show called Pete 2.0, or some stupid shit, I marched into my office, drank a pint of whiskey, and listened to Drunken Angel (Emmylou Harris) enough times to make Santa Claus cry. And all this in enough time to get to work.
But I didn't get to work in any easy, normal manner.
The person giving me a ride insisted on screaming at the sluggish, sloth-like construction workers working on the street like the old cock-sucking bastard that he actually is, and bitched me out for what I had chosen to wear for the day.
First of all, who the fuck is he to tell me what to wear? Second of all, why do I have that incessant rash on my left testicle. I'm guessing some questions will never be answered.
But back to the story. After arguing (physically and otherwise) for fifteen minutes with dolts, I finally got to work, only to recall that I had clipped my badge (by way of an alligator tooth clip) to my cats tail, mostly to watch it suffer, and apparently to forget to bring it to my hell-ride of a job.
"Fuck", I muttered under my breath, just loud enough to let all the non-working procrastinating sons of bitches choking down crappy cigarettes to hear, and stomped into work. Not three seconds after I get my cup of coffee, I'm approached by a clean-cut, short, official looking little bastard that proceeds to patronize me and say things like "There he is!", and "You know, you are the sharpest dresser in this place!!!!111!11!1!!!!!!". Now, of course if this was the first time that this had happened, I'd have punched in the jugular like he deserved, but this has actually been going on for something like 4 weeks. Who in their right fucking mind would go out of their way to patronize somebody that they have never met?! Apparently this choad would.
I kindly turned down his suppositions and told him to go back to hell and got my ass to my cubicle, where I was accosted by not one, not two, fuck, not even three, but six different people, that for some reason knew that I was having a shitty morning, over the phone. Needless to say, I've gone through three key-boards, ten monitors, seventeen PCs(that suck), and eight children since I've been in this hell-hole.
Stupidity has somehow rocketed itself into view by means of human beings, which, I know, has been happening for centuries now. But when did some fascist asshole have to make it so blunt and in your face, like an MTV special about hypochondriacs?
Fight the system, I say.
Now I'm going to take more phone calls that go absolutely nowhere, chug coffee, and continue hating you, myself, and everything around me.

You pricks.