It was a sunny, mid-summer’s day. The birds were singing and bees a buzzing! There was harmony in the office that day. My co-worker, Larry and I were going about our normal business, toiling here and there and making clever, insulting remarks towards each other as always when some time shortly after the lunch hour Larry slipped into my office with a brilliant idea!

“Peavey, check that out.” Larry said in a rather giddy voice pointing to an old electric pencil sharpener sitting in the back corner of the office on a bookshelf. The contraption looked to be an office remnant of the 60s. In fact, I feared it might be better suited for eating fingers than sharpening pencils. It appeared to have not been used for sometime as a thick layer of dust clothed the old piece of machinery. It would have remained practically forgotten if it had not been for Larry’s insane boredom and acute observation.

Larry, being a man of comic genius and ingenuity had just thought up a brilliant game for us to play! He told me his plan and I rushed away to gather as many unsharpened pencils as possible from the supply clerk. With the help of the office central supply I was able to secure quite the impressive lot of new unused yellow writing utensils!

“Alright dude, here’s how the game goes.” Larry’s voice was draped in enthusiasm. “I’m going to take this rackety old pencil sharpener and sharpen pencils outside MDM’s door until he tells me to stop! If I get through 20 minutes without him saying a word, you’ll buy me lunch two times. If he mentions it to me or complains, I’ll buy you lunch two times!”

I keenly took the bet figuring no man could ever stand to sound of a rackety old pencil sharpener running for nearly a half an hour strait without at least acknowledging the annoying whirling and spinning of that little motor as it so furiously hacks away at the brittle wood of the oh so classic #2 pencil! But then again, very few have challenged the gumption of a man we like to call MDM! At the very least, I figured the motor would burn up and we’d call the bet off.

To help you, the readers better understand the man that is MDM I will say a few words to help convey who he is but sadly you can never really truly know without meeting him.

MDM, is a man of extreme nerve. Some have said that if a courageous soul were to take a sledgehammer to the will of MDM, that sledgehammer would simply crumble in their hands. The source of power that fuels MDM’s extreme nerve is unknown and will surely remain an enigma For-EV-ER! In a war between the will of MDM and the world, back MDM. He will out last anyone in an argument regardless of being right or wrong. Many have visited the office of MDM to argue their points, some have argued for hours late into the evening but MDM always prevails. MDM is a living, breathing filibuster.

To start the contest, Larry took a stack of fresh pencils, plugged in the rickety old pencil sharpener and pulled his chair to the door way of his office which sat adjacent to MDM’s, and so entered the first of many virgin pencils that would be deflowered that harmonious afternoon. The motor fired up making the unpleasant whirling sound, dissimilar to that of an average pencil sharpener. No, this was a much more intense version of the typical hissing and swooshing coupled with a constant grind.

Hisss- swoosh-shhh-shh-shhh- grrrrrrrrrrrrrr

The first pencil met its end quickly with MDM’s stone cold stare never diverting from the mammoth 20 inch CRT monitor dominating his desk. Then another and another and another! MDM’s cold hard stare into the computer screen was quickly becoming the thing of legends, a tall tale that office workers everywhere would someday speak of. In fact, it would later be known amongst some circles as THE EVERLASTING GAZE!

After 15 minutes of intense sharpening action Larry rolled his chair back to his desk, still sharpening away. His assurance of victory was painted all over his face. I began to panic. After all, how could it be that a man could sit through the nonstop, constant whirling of that old pencil sharpener without ever blinking or even looking up?

The sharpening continued. So many pencils had already met their doom, so many trees cut down as sacrifice to our sick, sick sport.

I decided I had to take the loser’s way out. I retreated to my office and shot off an email pleading with my boss. It read:

Get up out of your chair, walk into Larry’s office and ask him, “Man, what the hell are you doing in here?” Then turn around and go back into your office like nothing happened.

A force greater than myself must have been watching our for me because a few seconds later MDM emerged from his throne, walked into Larry’s office and executed the request in the email just as I had asked! It was as if he were a robot.

The sharpening abruptly ceased. A few seconds later Larry entered my office and said, “Well crap, I guess I underestimated MDM. I owe you two lunches.”

The free lunches were mine, but at what cost? I had cheated my friend and lost the opportunity to see a man of intense density sit through 20 minutes of constant racket.

MDM would have sat through 20 minutes of endless noise and many more if we had the pencils to supply our devious game. I still sit and ponder at times, wondering just how far we could have gone. We could have cleared an entire rain forest’s worth of trees shaving pencils down before he diverted his stare but because of my cowardliness no one will ever know the true depths of THE EVERLASTING GAZE.

One of my simplest joys in life is humiliating my wife in front of her friends and co-workers. When I say humiliate, I don’t really refer to me directly humiliating her rather I humiliate myself which in turn passes the humiliation on to her. Recently I got a great chance to do just that.

A few months ago I had my wife Nair the hair off my back. I posses an unfortunate genetic condition that some refer to as Chewbacca Ass which is only treatable with expensive laser treatments or the cheaper alternatives of having friends and family forever manually remove the hair from your body with razors, wax or other products.

Back in the day a few of my buddies and I would get together for a guy’s night out to have shave parties. As gay as it may sound, there is little more satisfying than rubbing your fingers over the clean shaven, silky smooth surface of one of your best pal’s backside! Since getting married I have opted to go for having the wife do it for me.

Usually my wife is extremely hesitant to shave me. This past hair removal session I had to force her into it. I pulled out the towels, grabbed a big bottle of Nair then stripped down naked and lay in the floor directly in front of her as she lay on the couch watching TV.

“Hey baby…” I said in my sweetest innocent sounding voice. “Nair my back, it’s hairy.”

She looked down at me dissatisfied and replied, “I hate doing this, can’t we do it tomorrow?”

“No, I want to do it now.” Then I opened the bottle and squirt it onto my back giving her little choice but to join in.

My wife moaned and uttered a small complaint under her breath then leaned down and began rubbing the Nair over my body, slathering it on in sheets like a mad baker covering a wedding cake in thick icing. The emulsion was easily a quarter of an inch thick when she finished.

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This morning at work I was walking down the hall, looking forward to taking my daily morning poop when I notice the door to the women’s restroom was propped open. Out of curiosity I glanced inside to discover the PARADISE women enjoy while relieving themselves in the restroom at my place of work.

The women’s restroom here is extremely nice; it’s actually somewhere I’d like to hangout. But what’s worse is how disproportionately better it is than the men’s facilities! Observe the image below to see what I’m referring to.

When I walked into the entrance way of the women’s restroom the smell of fabric softener filled the air, the room was extremely well lit and there is even a public service ad resting on the small table that is situated between two cushy seats reminding women that they don’t have to tolerate getting beat by their husbands! The floors even appeared to have actually been mopped recently. I’d have actually walked in there with my bare feet if I had to!

Now observe the conditions of the adjacent men’s restroom!

The air reeks of urine, there are no side tables, no cushy seats and not even an old milk carton to rest our weary selves on and we get no reminder that we also do not have to endure abuse! Add to that, the floors are sticky with God knows what! I’d almost rather take a dump out in the woods than take one in here. Problem is, until today I didn’t realize it was so bad.

I would liken my experience today to living in Mexico your entire life in an adobe hut. You have plenty of beans, rice and tortillas to eat everyday, your job at the local sweatshop is now paying a whopping $3 a day and while you know life is hard, it’s alright. Then you sneak across the border one night with a buddy and you’re suddenly in the US. Here they have houses that don’t melt in the rain and they have these awesome things called FLOORS! Yes, you don’t have to sleep on the ground and you can get all the beans, rice and tortillas you want (up until 2 AM at select locations) at a place called Taco Bell. But it doesn’t stop there, no sir. You soon learn that they pay the dumbass who works at Taco Bell $7.50 an hour, more than twice what you make in an entire DAY! Suddenly, your life totally blows balls! That’s what my discovery of the women’s restroom today was like!

Even sadder is the utter lack of space men have to actually do their business in our restroom. We don’t even have a handicap stall and the two regular stalls are so small that you have to straddle the toilet to open the door and get out! I’d have gone into one of the women’s stalls to inspect the amount of space they enjoy but I feared that I’d find flat panel TV’s and a bidet! In which case I’d have had to either quit my job out of principle or even more likely, I’d just start using the women’s restroom to take my morning poop sessions!

Bottom line, this is pure and simple inequality. I’m sick and tired of hearing women bitch and moan about sexual harassment and being paid a lesser wage. Sure, we all cop a feel on the occasional office hottie in the breakroom from time to time and yes, I do make $5 an hour more than the chick down the hall who does the exact same job as I do, but that’s beside the point. You have a real trash can and a handicap stall to abuse!

You know not what pure joy is until you’ve used the handicap stall to take a massive dump. It’s awesome. You can let it rip as loud as your heart desires and no one can tell it’s you because the stall is so large that they can’t see your feet from under that walls! It’s pure freedom!

Check out a few of the other monstrosities that plague our men’s restroom at work! Pathetic!

Thanks to men like Tom Cruise and John Travolta, we’ve learned that anything can be a religion. Men like this take the fictitious works of science fiction novelists like L. Ron Hubbard (or even George Lucas) and indoctrinate it into the feeble minds of the shallowest of mankind. Simply put, people love to worship things and will worship anything. Who cares if it doesn’t make sense, who cares if it was an idea literally pulled out of some guys ass literally last week, WE WANT TO BELIEVE!

It appears another sham religion has emerged, this time it is based on the Jedi philosophy made so popular by the Star Wars franchise. The followers of the Church of Jediism, (a word even more fictitious than their religion) use the “insight and knowledge” from the films as “a guide to living a better and more worthwhile life.”

When I was 6 I too was part of a religious group of this nature called “Turtle Power!” We followed the teachings of Master Splinter as they were passed down to the 4 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Master Splinter and The Shredder kind of had a yin and yang thing going on. Damn I wish that religion was still around.

Funny enough, almost all the ideas the Jedi’s follow appear to be ripped off from Upanishadic philosophy. I guess dudes that spend all day gripping their “light sabers” wouldn’t know too much about anything outside the ficticious world of Star Wars though. And furthermore, isn’t fan fiction a huge part of the Star Wars universe? Don’t these Jedi wannabe dip shits have a problem with the fact that people could just start rewriting things and if one piece of fan fiction becomes more popular than the rest, it sort of becomes the popular mantra? Oh yeah, that already happens in major religions. My bad.

Well, a few days ago this religion was met with some mockery and intolerance. My new hero, a 27 year old Welsh man name Arwel Hughes dressed up like Darth Vader, downed a 2 ½ gallon box of wine, donned a garbage bag cape and kicked these guys asses while they were having a light saber fight.

Yes… they were actually having a light saber fight. Hughes only got caught because they were recording it. I guess it’s kind of like their own version of porn… crossing swords… err, I mean light sabers and all.

When the victims, who are obviously not very good Jedi if two of them can’t even defeat a drunken Darth Vader, were interviewed about their religion they commented:

“We all love the films and what they stand for. Obviously some people are going to laugh about it… But a lot of people do take it seriously.”

Obviously he’s right since a 2001 United Kingdom census reported 0.7 percent or about 390,000 people listed Jedi as their religion.

That’s an awful lot of grown men playing with glow sticks. Hope they keep those things sheathed during all those long homosexual light saber parties!

Source: http://www.foxnews.com

Check it out: The Official website for the Jedi Church

Last week I got new neighbors. Their arrival nearly blindsided me. I literally came home from work one day and they were just there, practically fully moved in. Having neighbors is a part of life. If you aren’t lucky or wealthy enough to live on a large piece of property shielded from the surrounding populace, you’re probably going to have neighbors.

I live in the middle of town, so my neighbors are especially close; in fact we share a driveway.

To most people having neighbors at a house is apparently different than having neighbors in an apartment. In an apartment people tend to come and go quite often and the population density is exceedingly higher. In a house there seems to be a sense of permanence and you tend to only have 2 or maybe three immediate neighbors within spitting distance. This is opposed to the apartment situation where you literally have 6 or more families side by side and stacked on top of you, all within the distance that you can flip a booger. These phenomena results in the desire of most home owners to know thy neighbor.

Since having the new neighbors some of my friends and family have asked me questions like, “Have you introduced yourself?” or even lamer, “You should bake them a pie!” or even more lame, “You should have them over for dinner, or maybe cook out and invite them to the neighborhood!”

What do you people think this is? Life isn’t like a rerun of some feel good sitcom from the 1960′s. People don’t do that anymore, in fact I’d bet those shows were all anti-communist propaganda. That world never existed! Instead of having the new neighbors over, why don’t I just give them an inventory of everything in my house and put a sign on the front door that says “Please Rob Me!”

I’m so anti-neighbor; I don’t even want them to know my name. The more info they have, the easier it is for the neighbors to mooch off me. For example:

Scenario #1: Neighbor knows my name and has been to my house to eat dinner. Because the neighbor has this information they are quick to A. ask to borrow something. B. ask to eat my food and C. offer to play my video games for me.

“Hey Peavey, can I borrow your water hose? Oh, and the wife wants to know when you’re having another one of those awesome cookouts. She loves your wife’s potato salad! Wanna play some Wii or Playstation later?”

No! No! No! Don’t bother me. I have friends who I’ve hand picked to do these things with me.

Scenario #2: Neighbor knows my name but has never been to my house. Because they know my name, they still aren’t afraid to ask to borrow things.

“Hey Peavey, I feel horrible asking but we’re in a tight jam this week. Think I could borrow $50 until next Friday?”

No! No! No! If I had extra money to just give away, I’d live somewhere where I don’t have to share a driveway with assholes like you.

Scenario #3: Neighbor doesn’t know my name or anything about me but still gets the impression that I’m a nice guy because I wave at him occasionally. Even now, I still get bugged.

“Hey neighbor, wanna get a 12 pack of beer this weekend and hang out?”

Let me guess, I’m buying the beer. No! No! No! How about I buy my own 12 pack, you buy yours and we’ll get drunk alone on our own couches in our own houses.

Scenario #4: In this ideal scenario, I never look at my neighbor, I shoot their dog with the BB gun when it pisses and shits in my 5′ by 5′ patch of grass I call a yard and when I’m getting my mail and they attempt to say hello I pretended I don’t hear them and rush into the house.

“Hey neighbor… go to hell.”

Yes! Now that’s more like it.

Fact of the matter is, if someone is bleeding to death I want to be the last person whose door gets knocked on. My mom and mother-in-law both embrace the neighborly love idea and both annoy the hell out of me. All the women on both their streets have this system of borrowing and lending their stuff to each other. And they’re all always in each others business. I say to hell with that.

Leave me alone neighbor.

Last night I went to the Braves vs Padres games. It was good times hanging out with some friends, taking it easy and enjoying our national past time. I had offered Larry a ticket (FOR FREE) but he wimped out despite the fact that he works only a few blocks from Turner Field.

The weather was perfect, Tim Hudson pitched a great game, Chipper Jones was on fire and even more importantly the beautiful women of Atlanta were out in droves displaying their artificially tanned legs and midriffs with their short shorts, sun dresses and low cut shirts. For any red blooded American male, it was as close to heaven as it gets.

After the third inning I decided to treat myself to a delicious $7 jumbo dog. I usually back away from the concessions at ball games because of their low quality and insane price, but today was going too perfectly so I decided to partake in the guilty pleasure.

So I get in line, wait several minutes and am greeted by a large, cheery black man,

“What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?” He slurred quickly, almost inaudibly.

“Uh, gimme a jumbo southwest dog with onions and a small coke.” I replied.

The vendor quickly spouted off, “Jumbo southwest dog all tha way wit onions!”

Then he looked at me and said, “that’ll be tweeenie dollas… na I’m kiddin wit cha, that’ll be leven fiftie!”

$11.50! This is why I usually get loaded in the parking lot, sneak in my own liquor and bring my own food to these things.

So the vendor gets my $7 hot dog, which admittedly almost looks like it’s worth $7, I’m so hungry at this point and sits it on the counter in front of me. I hand him the cash and am waiting for change when a big gust of wind catches the dog and sends it rolling down the counter.

Chilli, cheese, onions and jalapenos are now everywhere. I stare up blankly at the vendor and he stares back.

“So uh, my hot dog kinda made a mess there.” I say.

He keeps staring at me blankly. “Next! What’ll ya have, what’ll ya have?”

I scooped the toppings of my dog up and slopped them back on the $7 limp dick of a hot dog I just bought and stomped off.

I would estimate that the markup on concessions at sporting events is easily 1000%! This stuff is marked up more than blood diamonds! When you buy a hot dog at a ball game, it’s probably better suited for raping your ass than eating because that’s what they’re doing to you, RAPING YOUR ASS!

Is it really going to hurt your bottom line so much that you can’t do the customer, who is already paying outrageously inflated prices, right!  What is the world coming too? This is outrageous.

So after eating my dog I go back to my seats.  We approach the chauffeur and my buddy and I reach for our tickets to get back in our section, only I don’t have mine. The chauffeur won’t let me by.  My buddy goes back to the seat to find my ticket and I’m left standing next to this aging jackass with an attitude.

“Are you trying to sneak in here? I haven’t seen you around here before. I’ve worked here years! I haven’t seen you before!  You aren’t trying to pull one over on me are you? You trying to sneak in here?”

Was this guy kidding me?  Sure old timer, you’re easily pushing 70, you’re eyes are glued to every pair of tits that waltz by and you appear to have a spot of Altimeters!  But you don’t remember me!? Go figure!  I’m a hairy, 225 pound dude who looks about as average as every other dude around here! I wonder why your old retarded ass doesn’t remember me?

Eventually my buddy returns with my ticket, after I had been interrogated for 5 minutes. You’d think I was a terrorist trying to sneak a shampoo bottle onto an airplane the way he acted.  Either than those two instances, the game was great and the old man was actually kind of entertaining.

In conclusion I want to tell all the vendors and concession stand workers at that game to suck my testicles. You’re all tools of the system, they crap on you! They pay you less an hour than what they charge for a 16 ounce bottle of water. And if you’re bosses are the ones who say you can’t do the customer right then they can suck my balls too! I’ll never buy another limp dick of a hot dog at a Braves game again!

My boss is a staunch Republican. But even more so, he’s a staunch Hillary Clinton hater! About 6 months ago I signed him up to receive Hillary Clinton text messages on his company cell phone.

For the past 6 months, at least once a day I hear the boss pronounce, “If Hillary Clinton sends me one more text message…” then he adds an exclamation of anger!

Today this prank just got a bit funnier. In addition to signing my boss up, I also signed up my father in law, mother in law, mom, sister in law and a ton of other people for the text messages. Sadly, none of these people ever mentioned being annoyed by these messages. Obviously they used the option to opt out of receiving the messages right after getting the first of them.

So for the past 6 months, my boss has been complaining every day about the text messages. I’ve always wondered, “Why doesn’t he just opt out?” But I never asked because it’s so entertaining to hear him complain. I honest to God figured the idea just never occurred to him. Then today he broke the news with his complaint I heard from his office 2 doors down from mine!

“Damn it! If Hillary Clinton doesn’t stop sending me text messages! I can only receive text messages on this damn phone, I can’t send them, so I’m just stuck getting this trash 2 and 3 times a day, every DAY!”

This is officially one of the best pranks I played in a long time. What a nice surprise I never anticipated. Being able to receive but not send text messages! Totally awesome!

Sign up your friends for Clinton text messages here!

Part 3: The Peeping Begins!

Shat had developed a good friendship with Mrs. Greare’s son Nate as a younger child and spent a fair amount of time at their house. Shat would brag about seeing Mrs. Greare in her underwear or bikini and he swore she walked around the house in skimpy nightgowns when he spent the night. In the back of my mind I usually discounted his claims, thinking he was full of crap, but then one day everything changed for me.

A few months before we got caught peeping, Shat took me up the hill to the angry husband and Mrs. Greare’s house.

“C’mon dude, be quiet” Shat whispered.

It was the middle of a June summer day, sun directly over head and the heat was blistering. A car could have passed down the road at anytime yet Shat seemed un-phased by the risks. We creeped up to the privacy fence and began peeking between the slats. Before my eyes lay Mrs. Greare butt naked and spread eagle right before us. I couldn’t believe it.

Most people would have considered us perverts and inside I knew what we were doing was wrong but we were fifteen and totally paralyzed by her vagina. The horniness had kicked in and I couldn’t resist. It was a force greater than my freewill. The very sight of her made my joints tighten and my muscles ache, it took everything I had just to hold still. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t help rustling around.

Shat grabbed my arm. “Dude!” He whispered angrily.

Mrs. Greare raised her head a bit looking towards us. Sun glasses hid her eyes and I couldn’t tell if her sights were focused directly on us or not. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. We were caught for sure!

But wait… something astonishing happened. Mrs. Greare relaxed her head and continued to sun bathe. Shat and I finished our brief peep show and retreated to his house unable to believe what had just happened.

“Dude, she freaking knew we were there! She’s gonna call the cops man. What are we going to do?” I was frantic.

“Man, she doesn’t care. I’m telling you. I think she’s seen me there before dude. I swear she doesn’t care.” Shat reassured me.

Then it hit me. Maybe he’s right. After all, why was she facing towards the corner of the yard with her legs open, lying on a towel a good twelve yards from the pool? Why didn’t she just lay next to her pool? Perhaps she was trying to get out of sight from any neighbors who may have had peeping eyes like ours, but she had to know we were there! She had to hear me moving and Shat whispering!

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This morning while I was sitting at a red light on my way to work I noticed a fat little chub of a kid sitting in the backseat of the car beside me. In his hands was what appeared to be a gigantic bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. The little porker was tearing into it like a great white shark tears into the flesh of a blubbery seal. I nearly threw up in my mouth at the site of the little piglet eating his grub.

In the front seat was the porker’s mom. Somehow she was managing to woof down a biscuit of her own, sip on a soda and drive all at the same time. Her overly rosy chubby cheeks almost seemed to be bulging out from her skull like a pair of infected goiters and her plump lips were swathed in a mixture of biscuit crumbs and thick red lipstick. It was almost as if she were a living, breathing caricature, a perfected stereotype of morbidly obese women everywhere.

This family wasn’t simply overweight, they were massive. They were the type of fat people who you could only ever imagine as being fat. The type of people who even if they lost 200 pounds, they’d still have that big over sized melon of a head with the rosy chubby cheeks and the plump tootsie roll lips! If you ever watched the original Willie Wonka movie with Gene Wilder and you think back to the character Augustus Gloop then you know the type of person I’m talking about. I’m referring to the die hard glutton.

I hate these people but even more so, I hate their kids. These are the type of people who herd around the buffet, packing down plate after plate and stuffing their faces to the point that they’re vomiting and in extreme pain. Then they pass their pathetic habits on to their children. These are the type of people who always eat an appetizer, never pass on dessert then wash it all down with a milk shake. When I used to wait tables I had to deal with fatties like these all the time. While they make me sick what really causes the nausea is the fat little piglets they spawn!

The average morbidly obese porker kid is a selfish, whiny ass brat with a bottomless pit for a stomach. They always have their little grubby hands in something, they always want to drink chocolate milk with everything and they always eat ALL their food! The parent enables this pathetic behavior, actually they reinforce it.

These chubs are generally lazy, non-motivated and pathetic. They tend to grow up to have poor work ethic and they care only about where their next meal or snack is coming from.

How do I know this? It’s because I used to be one. I used to have the attitude. As a child I remember always reaching for the cookies jar. I remember eating entire pizzas on my own as a 12 year old. I remember not being able to run because the friction between my jiggly thighs caused rug burn near my groin. I was so pitiable, I used to time out my meals! My mom let me eat ever 4 hours, so every 4 hours I made myself a snack NO MATTER WHAT! I used to eat bologna sandwiches with potato chips on them for God’s sake. I’d eat entire bags of Oreos dipped in cool aid. My God, I’m surprised I wasn’t snorting Pixie sticks I was so addicted to food.

But one day I left all that behind. I quit being a whiny, lazy, sorry fat ass! Today I’m still a little chubby but at least I hit the gym regularly and get out and actually live life. I’m not one of these sorry fat-souls who won’t even take the stairs or walk to the end of the drive way to get their own mail. (Yes, I’ve known fat asses that would actually drive their car to the end of the drive way to get their mail.)

These people make me sick. I knew one fat ass once that wouldn’t go to the second floor of our local mall because the escalator was broken. He actually refused to walk up the stairs. I never talked to him again after that day. These are the same chunky bitches that ride the motorized carts around in the stores and always fight for the closest parking spots! Why not walk a few feet for God’s sake? What, your knees hurt? That’s cause you weigh 500 pounds you pathetic piece of shit!

If you want to be a super chunk, fine. But please, quit letting your children follow in your footsteps! Every time I see one of the mini-chunks I have a quick day dream about kicking him/her over the top of a large hill and watching them roll down it! Damn that’s one funny ass day dream! I wish I could live it just one time!

Back when Larry Glavoltz and I used to work together, we’d pump out the hilarious emails on an almost daily basis. I kick myself in the balls all the time for not saving them. This one did survive though!

This correspondence between my/ Larry’s old boss is classic. I still can’t believe the Boss bought it all. I still remember our boss coming out of his office laughing about this man named Wilhelm who had pet alpacas and wanted a job with us! CLASSIC!

Email 1 (From Larry, AKA Wilhelm)
From: Wilhelm Busch III [mailto:wbuschgisluv@yahoo.com]
Sent: Friday, June 29, 2007 1:44 PM
To: Michael ######
Subject: Open Position

Mr. ######,

I saw the position open for Addressing Technician on the internet and would like to know just a little bit more about it. My wife and I have just moved to Dallas from the St Louis area, and I was looking for some GIS/Surveying related jobs that are close by. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Wilhelm Busch, III

Email 2 (From the boss)

Mr. Busch,

Thank you for your inquiry into our Addressing Technician position, but we have already filled that position.

Thanks again.

Michael ######

Email 3 (from Wilhelm)

From: Wilhelm Busch III [mailto:wbuschgisluv@yahoo.com]
Sent: Friday, June 29, 2007 2:24 PM
To: Michael ######
Subject: RE: Open Position

Mr. ######,

I’m sorry to hear that the position has already been filled. Would you happen to know of any other position(s) relating to GIS or surveying that might be opening up in the near future in Paulding Co or Dallas area? In fact, the more I dig up, the better because, my wife Francis is also looking for employment in this field.

Email 4: (From the boss)

Mr. Busch,

There is nothing available now, and I don’t know of anything opening right away, however, our GIS program is growing rapidly and there could be opportunities down the road either in my Division or in another department. Check our website (www.#####.com) periodically to look for any openings that might occur. If you would like to forward me resumes for you and your wife, I will be glad to hold them in case I have something come about.

Thanks.

Michael ######

Email 5 (From Wilhelm)
From: Wilhelm Busch III [mailto:wbuschgisluv@yahoo.com]
Sent: Friday, June 29, 2007 2:42 PM
To: Michael ######
Subject: RE: Open Position

Would you prefer that I send you my resume or my wife’s resume? I understand that presently the answer is that there is nothing available, however, if something were to come up in the near future, would it be possible for my wife and I to work for the county in 4 hour increment shifts on a daily basis? Obviously, it sounds somewhat odd, but bear in mind that we met in a GIS program, and our qualifications, education, and experience are virtually the same. Of course, the answer from most places has been a resolute “No,” but we agree that it is in the best interest of our family to find creative ways to cut childcare costs because daycare is so expensive. We also raise alpacas (which we could not do in St Louis), and they don’t thrive well when they spend extended periods of time away from their owners. Thanks again for your consideration.

Email 6 (From the boss)

You can send me both and if something were to become available we could explore those options.

Michael D. ######

Email 7 (From Wilhelm)

Mr. ######,

For the past few minutes, I have been outside feeding our alpacas. Francis told me that she e-mailed her resume to you, and was shocked and horrified by your vulgar response. She wanted me to let you know that she is a happily married woman and expects an explanation for the photograph that you sent her.

Thank you.

Wilhelm Busch III

(The image allegedly emailed from the Boss is enclosed in the email)