All posts by zann_69

If you didn’t know…

I imagine this information has made it’s way to everyone, but as a recap and to chronicle the event…

The Ref made an appearance at Assrape yesterday. He let the proverbial cat out of the bag to the Captain. However, to my knowledge, that was the extent of the visit. What a waste. I fail to see the purpose of giving “anonymous” information when the only outcome is to tell shithead what was said. Furthermore, it would seem that the Captain is on a crash course to fine tune his skills at being a douche. Later that evening, our unsung leader who had been working wing finished his duties and helped me out with some of my closing efforts. Boob and myself decided there was no use in him staying, he was supposed to be there till 12, and told him to take off. Not 10 minutes later the Captain arrived and the first words out of his mouth were “where is blah”. Well, actually I tell a lie, the first words out of his mouth were “where is….where is…uh….where is….where…..” SPIT IT OUT MOTHERFUCKER! Long story short, he made him come back in. They vanished into a hallway for a good half hour or so…who knows. I called it a while back, this company has no intentions of doing anything about this situation. They’ve known it existed for 20 years now and haven’t acted yet. This was all a charade to make us feel good for the time being.

It will make the work experience interesting for a while, possibly for a good goddamn long time. The Captain is hardly professional enough to handle the situation of knowing that everyone is against him and, personally, I have no intentions of making that any easier on him. With how he played things last night my friendliness is over. I can work along side him if I have to but that will be the extent of it. If he has a question, I’ll answer. I don’t foresee any other conversation between us taking place. If we order pizza…I’ll offer to everyone there, except him. He thought he was lonely before….

I’d rather hope I’m not the only one with this mindset, one person won’t matter.

The mayhem of the muster

While on a break late at night,
I ordered a burger and fries,
upon inspection I got a fright,
there was no muster to my demise.

I said “Miss, I miss my muster.”,
I would have proceeded on and cussed her.
She said, however, listen, Buster, I’m mister muster,
I then did realize an adam’s apple of great size.

Said mister muster, “it’s in a cluster,
down in yonder bin”.
Then to my surprise, before my eyes,
who would but walk in?

An adjuster to count said muster,
one by one the entire cluster.
I waited while he counted in the bin,
but my break from Assrape was coming to an end!

I seized the muster from the cluster,
out from under the adjuster.
In a panic, as passing mister muster,
I did entrust her,
these parting words “It’s spelled, and pronounced, MUSTARD you fucking retard.”

Darwin was a Crackpot

To my fellow bloggers:
Should you have the need to attend to something of greater importance such as doing your taxes, coddling a laughing child, or masturbating I encourage you to do so now because this is the result of two consecutive long boring nights at Assrape Incorporated where the mind was allowed to wander for extended periods of time. Be forewarned that this rant could take you a minute to read and time is one thing you’ll never get back.

Since the dawn of recorded time man has questioned many things. The greatest of these unanswered quandaries would have to be “where did we come from”. Now, While I do not suggest to know, first hand, the answer to this question I submit to you, the happy reader, that I am capable of disproving, and expounding upon, one such long standing theory.

Darwinism. The foundation of Darwinism is summed up with the statement “survival of the fittest”. The theory being that the strongest, fastest, and the smartest would survive the test of time and rise to the top. The slower, both mentally and physically, would sink into the abyss of nothingness, like David Hassellhoff, and be forgotten. While at face value this all seems a safe assumption life is not without its little surprises like phone solicitors, TV evangelists, and Captain Charisma.

To further illustrate the Darwin theory we will, temporarily of course, travel back to the stone age. A time in our history where the human courtship process consisted of beating the woman with a club and dragging her home with you. I realize this seems remarkably close to the modern process; the subtle difference being that the male was not forced to incur the costs of getting the female drunk beforehand.

Our stonage city is made up of three families. Each family is headed up by the bread winner, we will refer to them as Unga, Bunga, and Cunga. Well, one day, while admiring each others lepard print togas the boys realized that the food supply was running low so they set about the task of a hunt. Many days and nights passed but the fruits of their labors turned out to be a mammoth; A hearty meal indeed, which can be supported by anyone that has ever seen an episode of the Flintstones.

Now, with a food supply to last till the next ice age the three are allowed to go their own ways and pass the time in leisure. Unga, the brute he is, came to love the thrill of the hunt while out and decides to go track himself down some more game. Bunga, whose wife had the biggest boobies a potbellied cromagnan could ever want, chose to waste away his days sitting on his caveman ass in his caveman home looking up at the caveman ceiling pondering caveman thoughts. Cunga, however, created for himself a little game. He would balance a stick on a big rock and try to knock it off by throwing smaller rocks at it. He called the game “knock the stick off the big rock with small rocks”. Many archaeologists to date blame Cunga’s poor naming scheme for the lack of popularity the game acrued.

Now lets evaluate the situation for our over sized and under brained friends.

Unga runs the risk of being eaten, getting lost, and running out of food for himself while on his “hunt”. Should he succeed, however, he will have improved his own hunting skills, and therefore his survival likelihood, as well his own fitness. His genes will pass on to create a small margin of the individuals that are more physical than most. A small percentage only because most of the Ungas of the world ended up as somethings toothpick. It has been argued, however, that this “Unga gene” must be cyclic among humans as it has been known to pop up from time to time in our society in individuals like Joseph Stalin, Adolphe Hitler, and Bill Gates.

Bunga, much like Unga, has drastically narrowed his array of activities by staring at his caveman ceiling and thinking his caveman thoughts. Many Bungas of the world could no longer keep up with the others, due to lack of physical abilities, and as such in hard times were probably eaten. Every now and again, however, a Bunga would have a caveman thought. A good caveman thought. The kind of caveman thought that makes you want to think it. A tool, perhaps, the wheel. It would appear in a vision to him much like the flux capacitor appeared to Dr. Brown. The Bunga with such a thought would survive to spread his seed. Examples of Bunga inventions include, but are not limited to, silly putty, edible underwear, and that sticky tack used to put up posters.

Most of us are Cungas. Cunga passed his time throwing that rock, which kept him physically fit to an extent. He also explored his ingenuity to expand his pile of games to include “jump the log”, “kick the rock”, and my personal favorite “hit the rock with the stick”. Cunga became the fittest, so to speak, through possessing a broader base of skills than both Unga and Bunga. He also allowed himself proper leisure time, enjoying his games, to rest and relax.

At this point you may be questioning the title to this article as all seems to be in order. The flaw, I tell you, is Dunga. Yes, that’s right, Dunga, who has remained unmentioned until this point. Dunga was the great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather of Captain Charisma.

Returning to our prior example it’s worth noting that Dunga did not attend the happy hunting expedition. Indeed a cave-to-cave survey was held and all felt Dunga far too incapable to handle the burden of sharpening a stick and poking something with it. Instead Dunga stayed home in his cave, alone, forgotten, and unloved…just like the Captain.

Dunga can be attributed to one major thing in our history. Cave writings. Yes, those lovely drawings of buffalo and stickmen found on the interiors of caves where drawn by downtrodden Dungas. The preferred medium for such masterpieces is believed to have been their own feces.

So, while Unga, Bunga, and Cunga were out fending for themselves bagging that mammoth, Dunga was at home throwing out another poopy picasso for man to find millions of years later. It is important to fully understand Dunga, both who he was and what he did, for the full explanation to make sense. Dunga was a freeloader. Too innable to handle himself to even be wanted along on the hunting trip that would feed and support him yet he certainly was willing to take his share of the spoils. He was a leech. A festering hemorroid on the asshole of the earth. Yet, he survived. Darwins theory should have left him dead and forgotten ages ago, but that’s not what happened.

Furthermore the existance of the “Dunga gene” as it is seen today further defies logic. Given the courting methods mentioned earlier it is HIGHLY unlikely that reproduction would have ever occurred. The level of bludgeoning necessary to get any human being with functional sexual organs into a Dunga’s cave would have caused such severe trauma to the head that, should an offspring be conceived, it’s lifespan would have been unexplainably short. One parent, the Dunga, is a poopy writing reject that is all but ignored by the rest of the caveman society. The other parent has received a concussion to the degree of being mentally retarded. How this gene survived defies Darwin.

The most intriguing part of this entire situation is the position of authority that Captain Charisma has handjobbed his way into. This Dunga of a man has not only survived to adulthood but he is the head manager of a complex for a relatively sizeable corporation! Granted, there are certain other shortcomings that have remained. He is single, alone, and forgotten by most of the world. I postulate this is entirely because it would no longer be legal to deliver such a near lethal blow these days.

So now we have a firm understanding of Darwinism and it’s mistakes and oversights. The next time you consider mocking someones opinion of creationism (or any other theory) remember that Darwin was a Crackpot! Evaluate their theory. If there is a possibility for the lowest common denominator cocksucking his way to the top in their version of “where did we come from” then it might just be true!

I don’t blame the Captain…

It’s true, I don’t blame the Captain for his inability to be a human. I don’t blame him for communication skills at the level of a toaster. I don’t blame him for a complete lack of anything resembling a managerial skill. Nay, Captain Charisma is a victim. Who is to blame then you may certainly be asking. Well, I don’t blame the parents of this devil spawn either and the list of likely culprits is slimming.

I blame the personal physician of the Charisma family. Surely through the advances of modern science, even what it was at during the stages that Charisma’s mother and father still passed the evening finger bangin’ behind the piggly wiggly to a choir of screeching cats and three toothed bums known by aliases like “bub” and “jimbo”, he could see the outcome. The strongest, fastest, most likely sperm of the bunch…the cream of the crop, if you will, had a tendency towards early hair loss and while loss of mentality was an option it hinged upon there being a suitable level of mentality to lose. Surely this doctor, if you’re still willing to call this shaman of medical science a doctor, knew the outcome. He saw it in his future that this lad would bring tidings of a new porsche and a hot young receptionist with tits bigger than her I.Q. to help compensate for his low self esteem and a penis that would look much less comical on a two year old.

This man was evil. A cog in the perpetual wheel of corporate America. A member of the upper one percent that is too busy fucking the daylights out of everyone to realize that they’re crushing the foundation of bodies they’re standing on. In a way this modern voodoo man was a victim himself, but we can only take things so far. Someone has to be held to blame for this outrage against humanity. A simple thump on the noggin’ at the appropriate moment during birthing could have saved us all…but he wanted that new porsche. Maybe some planning could have created a more elaborate situation where an act of subterfuge could have been used to cover the key moment when the boy, at least we assume he was male at the moment this bouncing baby idiot was summoned through the black gate onto earth, was dropped. “Well, call me Mr. Butterfingers!”. That’s all it would have taken, and I really don’t think it’s asking too much.

The point is that the Captain, in all his glory, is not responsible in much the same way that a new born is not responsible for their motor movements…or laying down a heavy suppressive fire of piss on the new helicopter wallpaper that was put in just for him. It would be on par with holding the vending machine repair man responsible for the nuclear reactor of a submarine exploding. He couldn’t help it. He was far too busy ensuring that everyone who had a much more important job, like giving a complex order like “turn left”, wouldn’t run out of nutty crunch bars. I see no situation were a lack of gooey centered chocolate snacks would relay directly into a nuclear blast. Maybe I’m not thinking it through well enough, but the situation eludes me.

No, the Captain is that vending machine guy. He can’t handle the “turn left” order. He’s not capable of taking upon the responsibility of sitting on a pillow and looking important. Do we honestly believe that when he’s at home, in his free time, masterbating to the sears commercial on his black and white television while desperately trying to drive a second knuckle into his own rectum that his mind is racing towards the solution of a way to make this world a better place to live in? Certainly not, he’s thinking about how this whole idea of shoving that knuckle up his pooper seemed a lot better before ass started to bleed.

In conclusion I cry out to all medical practitioners everywhere. Consider the responsibility you’re taking on while bringing a child onto this planet. Consider the repurcussions of it beyond that big tittied receptionist. Do something for humanity!

The raise that wasn’t

So I’m workin along last nite, doin my thing. A particular crew leader of questionable lifestyle asks how raises will be going, trying to get some inside info no doubt. I probably gave him a nice “what the fuck” look and as calmly as possible asked if he’d been talked to by Captain Charisma. He hadn’t; as you may already know. It’s stupid enough how Assrape Incorporated© is treating the employees but does Grandmasta P really think that not telling anyone will make it go away? These poor bastards are gonna find out when they get their first check. That shit just ain’t right. There I was all looking forward to a shift when the big Pizzle wasn’t working…somehow he still made me have an average day there at Assrape. I hope his testicles rot.