crikey
It's turning into a bust-fest in the comments on here, which I am fully in favour of, whether the busts in question are anonymous or fully named.So keep it up girls.
Of course, this being the internet, any one of the busties in question is as likely a fourteen stone biker called Nigel as they are the curvaceous cutie of my dreams.
But Christmas is approaching and I've been good this year, so I guess you never know.
Anyway, fear not, I am still here, although a little caught up in work which is, much to my chagrin, making me,er, work. Bastards.
Still, I managed a little history writing at the weekend, which was a good start I guess.
So that's me. How are you?
Also, dilemma of the day (or, pick a horn, if you will)... as a contractor, is it ok to get smashed at the team Christmas lunch and pick a fight with a hatstand before passing out under the table? Or does etiquette dictate that I have a rubbish time?
posted by Peter The Great @ 12:15 PM
8 Comments:
Things here continue good, thank you muchly for asking. I'm feeling particularly bouncy and perky these days.
Re your (t)horny dilemma, I would say that as a consultant rather than a permanent employee you can probably get away with pretty much anything at a Christmas do. That is, apart from defecating into a rubbish bin in front of everyone, I know of someone who was sacked on the spot for that... but general drunkenness should be ok.
So go hence and enjoy yourself - and then come to your senses and return to London for Christmas!!!
Know the feeling about the unexpectedly work-y element of work. Three months of twiddling my thumbs while serving out my notice at the Other Place have resulted into a bit of a shock to system as I re-discover what it is like to be busy.
Re: the work do, as long as you maintain a level of drunkenness that is a) slightly lower than other attendees and b) distinctly lower than the most senior person there, you should go for your life.
xx
Contrary to Mads, you need to try & hit middle pin - more drunk than the sniffy PA to DoF but distinctly less drunk than Tracey from Supplies, who has turned up with flashing antlers and a litre of vodka in her handbag.
DO use the trick I picked up from that mental nurse, which is to wrap a wine box up as a Christmas present. That way, when the bar closes, you can continue drinking. Or use it to ply Tracey with more booze until she scans her arse and emails it round the orgaonisation.
Thank you for asking!
It’s been another eventful twenty-four hours “At Home with the Terrors”.
When I got back last night, Mrs Terror (Busty Anon to the rest of you slags) had prepared a fresh, healthy meal, all ready on the table. That’s fortunate as, contrary to popular belief, I don’t enjoy beating women. It’s for their own good and it hurts me more than it hurts them.
The evening was spent in choral rapture amongst an audience of elderly spinsters and professional virgins. The carols were marred only by the slap-headed pervert leading the proceedings, who fancied himself as the lothario of Horsham. I wanted to hang him from a lamp-post until dead, with the sign “Paedo” scrawled in dog shit around his neck.
Later, as we lay in each other arms, we dwelt on the ethics of shooting a baboon through the lung and compared notes on pithy verbal forms for needless aggression.
The Iron Maiden arrives today. Astonishing what you can get on the InterWeb.
Christmas party?... Get your retaliation in first by leading with a headbutt to the CEO and viciously glassing a cleaner.
Mrs Terror? Did we miss something?
No need for a hat yet, Ginger Princess!
Busty and I are happy, for the present, to endure the humiliating, ungodly, sensual tie that binds man and woman without a formal contract.
Yes, we are indeed bound by an unholy need to carry out excruciating acts on each other in the name of lust (although I don't count my cooking in that).
But Dr Terror knows how I feel...
I am a very happy Su despite multiple 12 hour work days, making 400 chocolate ducks, not having been on the internet for leisure in probably over a week and almost inspiring my workplace's first sexual harassment case. I think it's because of the snow on my parade...
My bridesmaid's dress is apparently awful (I don't know why I bothered with designs when the tailor has insisted on making me look as though I've stepped off a panto set), but I don't care because work has given me a super spy name so I can still headhunt people when the real me has pissed them off. It is beautiful. Like your mum.
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