Now I seem to remember a self-imposed rule back a while ago- no blogging whilst under the influence.

Well, I am ignoring that rule. Just because I feel the need to type. And take my time reading through the typos- fixing as I go along, because I am not Courtney Love, and do not need to look like a total idiot on my own blog (check it out- was in MSNBC's Scoop last week- sad state of affairs, as per usual when discussing old Court.)

And while I am feeling all fancy and high-handed, I'm here to tell you something. But I'm just not totally clear on what it is. Which bloody well figures. Typical. Now there's a story.

I got shitcanned from a job. And replaced by the fucking Canadian. Who was a total bait and switch- appeared to be perfect for the job, but in reality was a total basket case- and I saw through it immediately. Because mine eyes have seen the glory, etc. Seriously, though- she was a wreck.

So she took my job and ran it into the ground (by that time I was onto bigger and somewhat better things- with a full assortment of bitter little feelings- which I still carry around and treasure- to be trotted out when I have a belly full of microbrew- hey! Like now!!!)

She was writing copy for a company brochure- because for some absolutely inexplicable reason, the boss wanted to re-brand the company every three fucking months- new logo, new tag line, new everything- fuck the cost- it was ridiculous. And so blasted wasteful.

So there was a brochure. And it was a mess. Graphically and otherwise. If you know the designer, please don't pass this along- I do like him, it just wasn't his finest hour. And I have no doubt it was because he got no help from above- as per usual at that place.

I digress. Of course. Blame the beer and the fucking Canadian. (to quote South Park, "Deer daking der derbs" watch the episode re. aliens taking jobs, to get the insight there if you give a shit.) OK. So she was writing copy.

Primest and most quotable to this day quote-

"Typically, redacted company name is anything but typical."

I shit you not. Goork. And not in a good way.

So The Boy and I tend to quote that pithy little abortifant phrase whenever we use the word typical.

Did I say before that he went to Atlanta with the fucking Canadian? Well he did. Lucky him. He did bring me back a tshirt from Coca Cola. Because he loves me and not the fucking Canadian. She took my job, but not my man. Or my dignity. Goork.

Whatever. I am sure that when I review this whilst sober, I will cringe. Indeed.