God damn it. I’m so fucking stressed at work I don’t even think the bottle o’ Crown Royal I got in the cabinet can make a dent. This is a job for Johnnie Walker Blue Label and with all the fucking overtime I’m working these days I just might be able to afford me some if I can bring myself to justify that much money for a bottle of fucking scotch. Heroin is much cheaper.
The people I work for (customers, not the boss) are fucking idiots. I’ll save ya the technical-engineering-tight-tolerance-jargon. Uh..huh, huh…I said “tight tolerance”. Whoa, whoa – getcher mind outta the gutter there, Nasty Girl. There ain’t room for both of us.
Let’s just say they don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground and leave it at that. At work, we generally agree it’s a fucking miracle that more airplanes don’t fall out of the sky.
I got so many jobs on my plate that I can’t even work on one of ’em for more than 1/2 hour without gettin’ pulled off to work on somethin’ else for anywhere from a few minutes to whole ‘nother 1/2 hour before it’s something else. Then I gotta remember where the fuck I was, how the fuck I got there, what the fuck I was ‘sposed to do next and oh, god damn it…are you fucking KIDDING me? Interupted again? What is it NOW?!
My company finally found me some help and he’s bailing after 6 months or so. Whatever. Took ’em 4 years to find somebody who could at least fucking understand airfoil part prints, let alone know what to do with ’em. I ain’t hopeful of finding another one any time soon. Fuck! And I had my first vacation in 5 years scheduled. That ain’t gonna happen now. I’ll probably end up trying to train some kid straight out of college who is more worried about checking his Facebook account than doing his motherfucking job, which is what the last little bastard did. He didn’t last long with me.
You can bet your ass to a barn-dart that whole lot of Russians are gonna die tonight in Battlefield Bad Company 2 on my XBox-360.
Somebody call me a whaaaambulance. I ain’t feelin’ so good…