St. Valentine, Pervert

Ahhh, what a way to spend one of the crappier holidays ever invented. I haven't been this mad since I had to work on Arbor Day.

To my fellow coworkers who have not done so already: I encourage you to use this highly dubious opportunity to spill as much of the company ink in your lap as is humanly possible. You have my utmost assurance that nothing bad whatsoever will result from your actions.

Good idea.


I mean, c'mon, we're not exactly the most attractive group of people in New York City at this particular moment in history. Good looking people don't work cash registers at the Strand-- they gel their hair or show some cleavage*, and get paid to flip bottles of Sauza around like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Very often they are treated politely, because they are beautiful, and I daresay it, better than us.

I say it's high-time for us to band together, drink some a lot of Jack Daniel's, and pretend we're not disgusting circus freaks for just long enough to break our hideously long streaks of waking up alone. Yes, even if that does mean going to bed with the loud/pretentious/psychotic boy/girl/shemale/leper who leers at you in between the shelves. You owe it to each other.**

But let me be perfectly clear that when I say "we", I actually mean "you." Because I totally get laid all the time. Losers.

*Register people: please don't attempt either of these activities.
**Quite possibly.