StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Good thing she didn't say "What else could go wrong?".

Still a bit spun out about this....

Me: I'm worried that I'm becoming a half-decent software architect.
Friend: Becoming?

Out of Context Theater presents my workplace:

"They got a cowboy stuck in a horse again. Had to use shears to get him out."

Well, that's why it's important to use a personal lubricant, I suppose.

While working on a certain tv series based in Honolulu...

I'm spending most all of my time at my desk in the Art Department, while my bosses - the Art Director and Production Designer - are flitting about the island with the producers, here there and everywhere scouting shooting locations, etc. And one afternoon the PD and AD walk back into the office, and the Production Designer comes over to my desk and waves this handful of little skinny silvery-brown mushrooms under my nose.

"Do you know what -these- are?"

"Yeah. They're mushrooms."

"They're -magic- mushrooms. We found them growing on the hillside behind the restaurant where we stopped for lunch. This isn't enough to do much of anything but we're going to go back this weekend and pick up a bunch more!"

And I'm thinking...you know, those could be magic mushrooms, or they could equally well be kill-yer-stoopid-ass-dead mushrooms. And I'm also thinking, this is both the perfect literal and figurative illustration of why I don't like this project: I am getting slammed and chewed on for not getting shit released fast enough, and the two people whose signoff I need to release shit are off in the forest gathering magic mushrooms.

"Good luck with that, guys. Let me know how it all turns out."

To be fair, all of the magic mushrooms I've ever seen do have a pretty uniform appearance, except this one batch that was way out in left field with tall, knobby caps and more purple than blue in them that I was probably a complete idiot to eat, but which were totally mind-blowing. I used to love those things until they started giving me migraines when I was 25. If you can in any way avoid it, do not have a migraine while you are tripping.

~~~~~~~

YOUR DRIVER: Holy shit.

MY FAVORITE STRIPPER: What? I did Zombie Crawl and then walked to work.

YOUR DRIVER: How'd the crowd handle it?

MY FAVORITE STRIPPER: It was about a three-way split between, "Fuck, yeah!" "Fuck, no!" And, "What the fuck is even happening!?"

YOUR DRIVER: Was the exposed nipple intentional?

MY FAVORITE STRIPPER: Is an exposed nipple ever really unintentional?

YOUR DRIVER: Fair enough. Did you have them play Thriller?

MY FAVORITE STRIPPER: You know it! And Zombie Prostitute, and BRAINS!

YOUR DRIVER: Brilliant. So, you're exhausted but wealthy?

MY FAVORITE STRIPPER: Yeah, want to get Breakfast King?

YOUR DRIVER: You want to go to Breakfast King like that?

MY FAVORITE STRIPPER: Totally.

Wasn't sure where to put this, but since it happened at work, here it is.

Yesterday I was called by the pharmacy to assist a customer. Apparently, this lady has a relative who just underwent chemotherapy for cancer (she also had a hearing impairment, so communications weren't perfect - she could apparently understand my speech but the pharmacy tech's accent was sufficiently problematic they were communicating in writing. As the tech's penmanship was impeccable that worked out pretty well). The doctor said the patient needed to take 400mg doses of magnesium. So far, so good, right?

Well, apparently medicaid (or maybe it was medicare, I wasn't entirely clear on that) won't pay for items available over the counter, which magnesium is, being sold as a supplement. My role in all this was to go through our entire supplement stock and try to find magnesium in a 400mg dosage. Which we didn't have. It was all either 250mg or 500mg. The doctor had been very specific that it be exactly 400mg and no more. It seems the pharmacy could possibly get that, but not immediately or it would cost more or something of the sort, and it wouldn't be covered by insurance and money was, as it so often is, an issue. (Compounding pharmacists could make that dosage - my dad used to do that sort of thing, having started in the era when pharmacists compounded most of what they dispensed, but that sort of skill is rare these days and hemmed in by regulations. Thanks to some skanky operations, compounding pharmacists have also acquired a bit of a shady reputation over the past few decades as well. Our pharmacy at work is not licensed nor equipped for that.)

This left me frustrated. Was it really that critical that it be exactly 400mg? If so, why hadn't this come up before, after all, lots of people get chemotherapy and if it was that common a need you'd think it would be a standard available dosage, right? Or do people just either find a way to pay for the exactly 400mg dose or do without?

My role was done when I had determined we didn't have that dose in the supplement aisle, nor did we have a dosage that could be combined for the desired amount. I don't know what the final resolution was, and due to current privacy laws I won't know because I don't need to know, but I do know the pharmacy was trying very hard to find a solution to the problem. It left me wondering if the doctor was even aware of how difficult it was to fill his prescription, or the stress it caused? I see that a lot - the doctor says "do this" and send the patient or caregivers off, having no clue just how difficult it is sometimes for people - usually upset, distressed people - to fulfill these directives.

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: I've been having a hard time getting psyched up for work tonight. I'm usually into it, but the guy I'm going to see is old and has a tiny dick that doesn't get very hard and I'm just not feeling it. Would it be cool if we talked dirty for the rest of the ride? It'd help me out a lot.

YOUR DRIVER: Uh, cool would be an understatement; this is more like liquid nitrogen.

[time passes]

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Whew, that was hot. Thanks, [Raw Shark], I'm ready to go now.

YOUR DRIVER: Yeah, that makes two of us.

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Good, because I have another favor to ask you...

YOUR DRIVER: Oh..?

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: So, this guy I'm going to see right now fantasizes about a cute, innocent, kinda jailbait-looking girl-next-door like me who's secretly got the mind of the dirtiest street whore who ever scraped her knees on pavement, right? Which is funny because he thinks I'm a great actress, but that's actually kind of who I am. I work as a counselor with a lot of self-hating prostitutes at my day job at the drug rehab center, and I have to pretend like I get what it's like to understand how much they loathe what they do, when meanwhile I do it in my spare time for fun and vacation money and kind of get off on some of their stories, until they start crying at least. Anyway, this guy told me that I'd get a really big tip if I didn't clean up from my last job and showed up looking and smelling like as much of a nasty, used-up little slut as possible. The problem is, this is my first job tonight, so if you would come on my face it would really help me out.

YOUR DRIVER: ...seriously?

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Yeah, I mean he'll still tip you and everything. If I go in there with loads of fresh, hot jizz running down my face it'll blow his mind!

YOUR DRIVER: Holy fuck. Um, okay. How do you want to do this?

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Pull over to that bus shelter, it's dark enough. Try to get it on both cheeks, and maybe a little in my hair, but not in my eyes, okay? Leave the meter running.

YOUR DRIVER: Yes, ma'am.

I begin to see why you put up with this job...

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Pull over to that bus shelter, it's dark enough. Try to get it on both cheeks, and maybe a little in my hair, but not in my eyes, okay? Leave the meter running.

...

Are you done with your fucking book yet???

I need to see my doctor to hook that dislocated jaw back in...

Although nowhere near Raw Shark's levels of epic, I found this giggleworthy during a debug-over-phone session:

Co-dev: "Umm... what the hell did you do there? Why would you delete THAT?"
Me: "Apparently, I had lit my pants on fire, while I was wearing them." (Was a really stupid deletion that broke a few things)
Co-dev: "... I got nothing better."
Me: *loses it*

Raw Shark is apparently posting from the porniverse. I imagine he knows a pizza delivery guy who regularly delivers to beautiful women who don't have cash on hand, but offer another way to "pay" for the pizza.

Taking sex as payment makes me feel weird. I like to feel like it's just for the sex, or, in this case, for the sex and somebody else's business purposes.

Also, Porniverse kind of deserves its own Fantasy thread, IMHO. This sort of thing deserves rigorous definition! Somebody here will eventually debate it, after all.

Porniverse Rule #1: Nympho Logic: Whatever conclusion leads to sex is the proper one.

Zeropoint wrote:Raw Shark is apparently posting from the porniverse. I imagine he knows a pizza delivery guy who regularly delivers to beautiful women who don't have cash on hand, but offer another way to "pay" for the pizza.

I actually did get laid once, back when I was delivering subs as a teenager. She even had a great line:

SEDENTERY MILF: I know I ordered a six inch and a Coke, but I'm not hungry and I've already done a lot of coke. Do you have at least six inches for me?

YOUNGER ME: Fuck yeah, I do! Uh, Ma'am.

I mean, if you think about it, it's a pretty good way to get what will probably be a young boy to come to your place if you're really horny and lazy. She even let me keep the sub.

She even let me keep the sub.

Result!

At least she didn't make you one.

InsaneTD wrote:At least she didn't make you one.

You were that good - so she made you a sandwich...

Raw Shark wrote:FRECKLY CALL GIRL: I've been having a hard time getting psyched up for work tonight. I'm usually into it, but the guy I'm going to see is old and has a tiny dick that doesn't get very hard and I'm just not feeling it. Would it be cool if we talked dirty for the rest of the ride? It'd help me out a lot.

YOUR DRIVER: Uh, cool would be an understatement; this is more like liquid nitrogen.

[time passes]

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Whew, that was hot. Thanks, [Raw Shark], I'm ready to go now.

YOUR DRIVER: Yeah, that makes two of us.

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Good, because I have another favor to ask you...

YOUR DRIVER: Oh..?

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: So, this guy I'm going to see right now fantasizes about a cute, innocent, kinda jailbait-looking girl-next-door like me who's secretly got the mind of the dirtiest street whore who ever scraped her knees on pavement, right? Which is funny because he thinks I'm a great actress, but that's actually kind of who I am. I work as a counselor with a lot of self-hating prostitutes at my day job at the drug rehab center, and I have to pretend like I get what it's like to understand how much they loathe what they do, when meanwhile I do it in my spare time for fun and vacation money and kind of get off on some of their stories, until they start crying at least. Anyway, this guy told me that I'd get a really big tip if I didn't clean up from my last job and showed up looking and smelling like as much of a nasty, used-up little slut as possible. The problem is, this is my first job tonight, so if you would come on my face it would really help me out.

YOUR DRIVER: ...seriously?

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Yeah, I mean he'll still tip you and everything. If I go in there with loads of fresh, hot jizz running down my face it'll blow his mind!

YOUR DRIVER: Holy fuck. Um, okay. How do you want to do this?

FRECKLY CALL GIRL: Pull over to that bus shelter, it's dark enough. Try to get it on both cheeks, and maybe a little in my hair, but not in my eyes, okay? Leave the meter running.

YOUR DRIVER: Yes, ma'am.

Its official. You are a sex-worker now.

Me: Yeah, the easy solution would be to just drop this code for the second sort, and just keep the initial sorting and run with it.
Designer: Sounds good to me.
Me: Wait - if we do so, we would lose all the sort priorites after we sorted for the distance and network association, so they wouldn't be sorted for name and address, after those. We'll need to incorporate those into the initial sort, as well.
Designer: Right, we absolutely have to. Shouldn't be too bad, right?
Me:Well, I need to write comparators that are first merging the data columns we need into the right format as we'd display them, and then sort by that. That's not quite trivial.
Designer: I see. Do it, anyway.
Me:*wincing, whining*Why the heck do I do this to me? I should have stopped there - why do I always keep talking myself into doing more work?
Designer:*smiles* Because you have professional work ethics?
Me: *sighs* More like I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut until I know what I am talking about...

Its official. You are a sex-worker now.

He is an assistant sex worker now. Let us not demean the profession.

Yeah, I was just lending a hand there [rimshot - I'll be here all week]. If I could actually pay my bills as a sex worker without doing anything besides blasting cute young girls in the face while they grin and beg me for it in semi-public areas, I'd be a sex worker all day long and rack up overtime, and I suspect that I'm not alone in that.

LaCroix wrote:

InsaneTD wrote:At least she didn't make you one.

You were that good - so she made you a sandwich...

I think he meant the more naughty definition of "sub", as in "submissive".

Yeah, there was a second or two there where I was thinking, "What? If she'd made the sandwich herself I'd think she was a very nice lady, why would- Oh..."

Dalton wrote:

LaCroix wrote:

InsaneTD wrote:At least she didn't make you one.

You were that good - so she made you a sandwich...

I think he meant the more naughty definition of "sub", as in "submissive".

I didn't miss it, but it also triggered the mental image of a MILF getting up after really good sex to make her toyboy a PBJ sandwich as reward. Maternal instinct misfire, you know.