I'm sorry folks!
72 hour weeks are draining and I just haven't had the energy to sit and write lately.
Hence the rather lame pictures
My bosses don't take account of the hours I (we) have to drive each day. On average you can add two hours to my day. As I've been working 7 day weeks lately, that's an extra 14 hours on my week that goes unpaid.
I'm tired ...
... tired of pasting a smile on my face every time I see a client
(it's not their fault so I can't growl at them)...
... tired of 25 mile drives to see someone that has already gone
out because he forgot I was coming...
... tired of being tired ...
... and tired of 5am starts.
As I said ... I'm tired!
Another week of this regime to go before I get another day off!
That's NEXT WEEK! Not this week!
Wish me luck and hope that I don't lose the plot and do something silly!
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
Friday, 25 March 2011
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
No Refund! No Return!
Charlie was driving home late one afternoon - he was driving well over the speed limit.
When he looked in his rear view mirror he noticed a police car with its lights and sirens blaring.
He thinks, "I can get away! My car's fast enough!", so he puts his foot down.
The cars are racing down the motorway - 80, 90, 100 miles an hour.
Finally, as his speedometer passes 110 mph, Charlie realizes that he can't outrun the police car so he gives up and pulls over onto the hard shoulder. The policeman follows and parks behind him. He gets out, leans down to Charlie's window and says "Listen mate, I've had a really lousy day, and I just want to go home, all right? Give me a good excuse and I'll let you go."
Charlie thought hard then said "Three weeks ago my wife ran off with a policeman ...".
"Not good enough" the policeman started to say.
"... and when I saw you chasing me, I thought you were him and you were trying to give her back!"
When he looked in his rear view mirror he noticed a police car with its lights and sirens blaring.
He thinks, "I can get away! My car's fast enough!", so he puts his foot down.
The cars are racing down the motorway - 80, 90, 100 miles an hour.
Finally, as his speedometer passes 110 mph, Charlie realizes that he can't outrun the police car so he gives up and pulls over onto the hard shoulder. The policeman follows and parks behind him. He gets out, leans down to Charlie's window and says "Listen mate, I've had a really lousy day, and I just want to go home, all right? Give me a good excuse and I'll let you go."
Charlie thought hard then said "Three weeks ago my wife ran off with a policeman ...".
"Not good enough" the policeman started to say.
"... and when I saw you chasing me, I thought you were him and you were trying to give her back!"
Monday, 21 March 2011
Remembering ... Again!
(Posted Nov. 06, 2009 F.P.A.R Forum and here Mar. 31, 2010)
When Mr. Saveloy, a school teacher, met Mr. Cohen, a barbarian and leader of the Silver Horde*, he very quickly found that he began to like him. His honesty and simply code of right and wrong very soon had Mr. Saveloy wishing he too was a barbarian. Up until that point Mr. Saveloy's greatest battle had been in trying to keep discipline in the classroom. So he became a member of Ghengiz Cohen's Silver Horde.
As Mr. Saveloy (aka Teach) reminisced, having been with the 'Horde' for a while, it was hard for him to remember having ever done anything else.
So ... is it just me, or is it the same for other doggy people? Because I can't really remember NOT having a dog, and can't imagine myself EVER being without one!
Ramble over ... I'm finding it hard to concentrate what with the noise of four dogs snoring.
Although there are quite a few folks logged on in the mornings, nothing much seems to be happening. Anyway, shouldn't the women-folk be hoovering and doing the laundry n stuff?
*Interesting Times by T. Pratchett
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Ball Throwing For A Clever Pup!
My dog's activities in the park have been reported on numerous occasions and no doubt someone, right now, whilst reading this is saying 'Oh no! Not again'!
Sorry!
Our walks are always ball throwing walks as far as Sym is concerned.
I throw, Sym chases, catches then brings it back.
Sometimes!
I have determined that four commands come into play whilst playing ball.
"Fetch it" - when he drops it out of reach off the path.
"Where is it?" - to get his attentions when he drops it somewhere out of sight.
"Find it" - when he drops it in the long grass or in a big puddle
"Gimme dat" - when he doesn't drop his ball when it's time to go home
When I actually throw, or make to throw, the ball I don't say anything. It would be a waste of time and effort because Sym would already be arcing his way to the point where he would like to receive it, whereupon he will go down on the ground in that typical "I'm ready! Go for it!" collie pose.
When the ball is thrown, and sometimes even before, he begins the chase. He has an amazing ability to calculate the balls flight path and be there waiting for it to bounce. He also has the ability to look incredibly smug whilst chomping on his now captured prize!
The average round of 'throw & fetch' goes like this ...
Sym races into position. I throw the ball. Sym runs, jumps and catches. He starts to bring it to me ... but catches a scent and dashes off into the long grass only to emerge minutes later minus his ball.
Sym then runs into position, oblivious to the fact that he left his ball in the long grass.
In order to let him know that I can't find the ball, I shout "Where is it?" which grabs his attention and gets him running back to where he last saw it.
At this point he will look at me with his "You're kidding, right?" expression in the hope that he doesn't have to search for it.
Now this is the really good part - which I have mentioned before - where Sym uses his nose to find out where he left the ball.
"Find it!" I cry and off he goes, nose to the ground, looking for it.
When he locates it - and he nearly always does - he switches into smug mode again and trots off along the path, casually dropping the ball somewhere along my line of march so that I can throw it again.
On those rare occasions when he drops the ball a little too far from the track, or I just can't be bothered to walk those extra few steps, I say "Fetch it!" and he jogs back down the track, picks it up and drops it a little closer to me.
Sometimes - the times when he doesn't want to go home - the "Gimme dat!" order is unpacked and aimed right at him! He knows when this command is used it means ...
I always put him back on his leash at this point and drape it over his back, letting him walk to heel for the last two hundred metres or so back to the car.
He really is a good boy at heart.
Did I ever mention that I'm proud of my pup?
Sorry!
Our walks are always ball throwing walks as far as Sym is concerned.
I throw, Sym chases, catches then brings it back.
Sometimes!
I have determined that four commands come into play whilst playing ball.
"Fetch it" - when he drops it out of reach off the path.
"Where is it?" - to get his attentions when he drops it somewhere out of sight.
"Find it" - when he drops it in the long grass or in a big puddle
"Gimme dat" - when he doesn't drop his ball when it's time to go home
When I actually throw, or make to throw, the ball I don't say anything. It would be a waste of time and effort because Sym would already be arcing his way to the point where he would like to receive it, whereupon he will go down on the ground in that typical "I'm ready! Go for it!" collie pose.
When the ball is thrown, and sometimes even before, he begins the chase. He has an amazing ability to calculate the balls flight path and be there waiting for it to bounce. He also has the ability to look incredibly smug whilst chomping on his now captured prize!
The average round of 'throw & fetch' goes like this ...
Sym races into position. I throw the ball. Sym runs, jumps and catches. He starts to bring it to me ... but catches a scent and dashes off into the long grass only to emerge minutes later minus his ball.
Sym then runs into position, oblivious to the fact that he left his ball in the long grass.
In order to let him know that I can't find the ball, I shout "Where is it?" which grabs his attention and gets him running back to where he last saw it.
At this point he will look at me with his "You're kidding, right?" expression in the hope that he doesn't have to search for it.
Now this is the really good part - which I have mentioned before - where Sym uses his nose to find out where he left the ball.
"Find it!" I cry and off he goes, nose to the ground, looking for it.
When he locates it - and he nearly always does - he switches into smug mode again and trots off along the path, casually dropping the ball somewhere along my line of march so that I can throw it again.
On those rare occasions when he drops the ball a little too far from the track, or I just can't be bothered to walk those extra few steps, I say "Fetch it!" and he jogs back down the track, picks it up and drops it a little closer to me.
Sometimes - the times when he doesn't want to go home - the "Gimme dat!" order is unpacked and aimed right at him! He knows when this command is used it means ...
- it's definitely time to go home and
- double cheese reward for compliance
I always put him back on his leash at this point and drape it over his back, letting him walk to heel for the last two hundred metres or so back to the car.
He really is a good boy at heart.
Did I ever mention that I'm proud of my pup?
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
What Are The Odds?
Ok, so it was a Sunday.
A slow day for me as it happens as I only had three clients to 'help'.
So, I go to client #1 and he's fine. I spend an hour sorting him and a few odds and end out then I make to leave.
He stops me and proceeds to tell a joke ... it's an old one and not one of the best, but I laughed anyway.
That's the kind of guy I am!
I dash off to client #2, do the required business, then we had a chat over a cup of tea (I prefer coffee). Lo and behold, he tells me the same joke as #1!
He put a different slant on it, but it was, in essence, the same.
I laughed (politely) for a second time then bade him farewell before moving on to client #3.
Now client #3 lives some distance away and the drive to his house was one of the those 'fluffy' experiences that make you want to kill people, but in a loving, 'putting them out of their misery' sort of way.
Yes! The pensioners were all out for their Sunday 'hold everybody up' by driving at 15 MPH though the countryside drive.
It did nothing for my good humour, but it made me forget that joke.
Anyway, at client #3 I once again 'did the biz' and earned a crust.
Halfway though doing it he tells me he wants me to take him to his son's house for lunch and then said "Oh that reminds me. He (his son) told me a joke the other day!"
He proceeded to explain that, of course, he'd heard the joke before but that perhaps I hadn't and would like to.
"Go on then." I said. "Hit me!"
This is it...
Now, this is where the "What Are The Odds?' bit comes in ...
It was the same joke I'd already heard twice before that day!
So what are the odds that three different people, that don't know each other and are in three different towns, would tell me the same joke (or variations thereof)?
Mathematicians out there, get scribbling. Work it out!
A slow day for me as it happens as I only had three clients to 'help'.
So, I go to client #1 and he's fine. I spend an hour sorting him and a few odds and end out then I make to leave.
He stops me and proceeds to tell a joke ... it's an old one and not one of the best, but I laughed anyway.
That's the kind of guy I am!
I dash off to client #2, do the required business, then we had a chat over a cup of tea (I prefer coffee). Lo and behold, he tells me the same joke as #1!
He put a different slant on it, but it was, in essence, the same.
I laughed (politely) for a second time then bade him farewell before moving on to client #3.
Now client #3 lives some distance away and the drive to his house was one of the those 'fluffy' experiences that make you want to kill people, but in a loving, 'putting them out of their misery' sort of way.
Yes! The pensioners were all out for their Sunday 'hold everybody up' by driving at 15 MPH though the countryside drive.
It did nothing for my good humour, but it made me forget that joke.
Anyway, at client #3 I once again 'did the biz' and earned a crust.
Halfway though doing it he tells me he wants me to take him to his son's house for lunch and then said "Oh that reminds me. He (his son) told me a joke the other day!"
He proceeded to explain that, of course, he'd heard the joke before but that perhaps I hadn't and would like to.
"Go on then." I said. "Hit me!"
This is it...
During the war (II) a British Lancaster bomber crew is on their way over Germany
to their Target.
As they get closer, the navigator who doubles as the bomb aimer, starts giving more
precise directions to guide them in.
"Left a bit ... right a bit ... steady ... steady ... right a bit ... left a bit ... Bugger! Back a bit!!!"
It was the same joke I'd already heard twice before that day!
So what are the odds that three different people, that don't know each other and are in three different towns, would tell me the same joke (or variations thereof)?
Mathematicians out there, get scribbling. Work it out!
Sunday, 13 March 2011
Our Beasties!
 |
| Zac & Blossom discussing Sym's Condition |
 |
| "Seems ok to me" said Zac. "Wake me when something happens" said Blossom. |
 |
| "Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeese" |
 |
| "Feed me, dad" |
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Yank Speak!
Ok , so it's only one word I want to bring to the table this morning.
This word is constantly being abused by American TV and movie actors and it is driving me insane every time it is used.
'What word?' I hear you cry. 'Tell us, tell us!'
Aunt!
There! A harmless looking little word, isn't it.
But it seems some Americans just don't know how to say it correctly!
It should be aunt and in ant and not aunt as in awnt (as used in awning or dawn).
Got it!
The final straw came in (one of) yesterday's episodes of NCIS when DiNozzo (to whom I bear an uncanny resemblance with the exception of height, weight and looks) referred to someone as being the 'awnt' of a suspect.
This has been boiling up inside of me ever since this word was first (on TV anyway) abused by Will Smith in The Prince of Bel-air and now ... well, I've had enough (Oh, I was so close to issuing profanities via my saintly fingers).
Please, please, please say it the correct way in future.
That's it! My 'fire' has been extinguished.
Have a nice day, y'all.
This word is constantly being abused by American TV and movie actors and it is driving me insane every time it is used.
'What word?' I hear you cry. 'Tell us, tell us!'
Aunt!
There! A harmless looking little word, isn't it.
But it seems some Americans just don't know how to say it correctly!
It should be aunt and in ant and not aunt as in awnt (as used in awning or dawn).
Got it!
The final straw came in (one of) yesterday's episodes of NCIS when DiNozzo (to whom I bear an uncanny resemblance with the exception of height, weight and looks) referred to someone as being the 'awnt' of a suspect.
This has been boiling up inside of me ever since this word was first (on TV anyway) abused by Will Smith in The Prince of Bel-air and now ... well, I've had enough (Oh, I was so close to issuing profanities via my saintly fingers).
Please, please, please say it the correct way in future.
That's it! My 'fire' has been extinguished.
Have a nice day, y'all.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Stalag Luft III
You are all going to find this a little weird.
No ... you will. Trust me!
I have named my wallet Stalag Luft III.
I really did! I splashed a little soda water on it, christening style, and named it.
But before anyone starts thinking that I've lost the plot, let me explain.
Stalag Luft III was the so-called escape proof P.O.W. camp featured, as movie buffs will know, in the 1963 film The Great Escape.
Now I don't want you to start imagining barbed wire, machine gun towers and guards patrolling in the vicinity of my wallet (that would be unnerving as my wallet resides in my jeans arse pocket!) and there is no electrified fence or mine field surrounding it.
No!
I named my wallet Stalag Luft III because just like the prisoners in the afore mentioned movie, all my money keeps escaping!
Sad isn't it?
But, hey!
How many folks do you know with a named wallet?
No ... you will. Trust me!
I have named my wallet Stalag Luft III.
I really did! I splashed a little soda water on it, christening style, and named it.
But before anyone starts thinking that I've lost the plot, let me explain.
Stalag Luft III was the so-called escape proof P.O.W. camp featured, as movie buffs will know, in the 1963 film The Great Escape.
Now I don't want you to start imagining barbed wire, machine gun towers and guards patrolling in the vicinity of my wallet (that would be unnerving as my wallet resides in my jeans arse pocket!) and there is no electrified fence or mine field surrounding it.
No!
I named my wallet Stalag Luft III because just like the prisoners in the afore mentioned movie, all my money keeps escaping!
Sad isn't it?
But, hey!
How many folks do you know with a named wallet?
Sunday, 6 March 2011
My Boy Sym And His Ball
It was no different from any other walk.
Sox prowled around ignoring me. Clover was at my heels ... just in case I tried to run away.
Sym, well, he was hunkering down in the long grass waiting for the ball to be thrown.
It was!
Up he jumped and sped after it, easily making up ground and catching it on the second bounce. He jogged back along the path and dumped it at (almost) my feet and off he went to assume his 'throw it now' position in the long grass.
This went on again and again and he successfully caught and returned his ball to me each time.
But ...
... here it comes...
... on the second lap of our walk he caught the ball and was immediately distracted.
He dashed off into the long grass (slightly longer than the 'other' long grass where he would wait for his ball to be thrown).
I called him back, but he didn't respond. I called him 'Sym' and he returned straight away!
Minus his ball!
I sent him back to find it but, nearly 15 minutes of his nose sniffing though the undergrowth (is it still called 'undergrowth' when there's nothing over it?) produced nothing.
I scolded him and walked on. He followed, as did Clover (Sox hadn't even noticed we had stopped and was on her way home) but he was constantly looking and waiting for a ball to be thrown.
I walked about 75 yards down the track and sat on a log that the council had dumped by the path so that they wouldn't have to spend any money on a park bench.
Sym approached and I could tell he was somewhat confused as to why his ball wasn't being thrown for him.
"Sorry" I said showing him the ball-less flicky-stick. "If you hadn't lost your ball, you'd still be playing".
He sniffed the end of the stick then galloped (can a dog gallop?) away, back the way we had come.
All I could see from where I sat was the white tip of his bushy tail as it criss-crossed the longer long grass area where he had lost his ball.
Within five minutes he was bounding down the track with ...
... you've guessed it...
... his ball stuck in his mouth!
I gave him a big fuss and praised him to the heavens and back!
He grinned from ear to ear, as only a smug Border Collie can, and romped off into the long (not so long this time) grass and awaited the flight of his newly found ball.
It flew!
He's a damned clever boy, my Sym!
Sox prowled around ignoring me. Clover was at my heels ... just in case I tried to run away.
Sym, well, he was hunkering down in the long grass waiting for the ball to be thrown.
It was!
Up he jumped and sped after it, easily making up ground and catching it on the second bounce. He jogged back along the path and dumped it at (almost) my feet and off he went to assume his 'throw it now' position in the long grass.
This went on again and again and he successfully caught and returned his ball to me each time.
But ...
... here it comes...
... on the second lap of our walk he caught the ball and was immediately distracted.
He dashed off into the long grass (slightly longer than the 'other' long grass where he would wait for his ball to be thrown).
I called him back, but he didn't respond. I called him 'Sym' and he returned straight away!
Minus his ball!
I sent him back to find it but, nearly 15 minutes of his nose sniffing though the undergrowth (is it still called 'undergrowth' when there's nothing over it?) produced nothing.
I scolded him and walked on. He followed, as did Clover (Sox hadn't even noticed we had stopped and was on her way home) but he was constantly looking and waiting for a ball to be thrown.
I walked about 75 yards down the track and sat on a log that the council had dumped by the path so that they wouldn't have to spend any money on a park bench.
Sym approached and I could tell he was somewhat confused as to why his ball wasn't being thrown for him.
"Sorry" I said showing him the ball-less flicky-stick. "If you hadn't lost your ball, you'd still be playing".
He sniffed the end of the stick then galloped (can a dog gallop?) away, back the way we had come.
All I could see from where I sat was the white tip of his bushy tail as it criss-crossed the longer long grass area where he had lost his ball.
Within five minutes he was bounding down the track with ...
... you've guessed it...
... his ball stuck in his mouth!
I gave him a big fuss and praised him to the heavens and back!
He grinned from ear to ear, as only a smug Border Collie can, and romped off into the long (not so long this time) grass and awaited the flight of his newly found ball.
It flew!
He's a damned clever boy, my Sym!
Friday, 4 March 2011
Not What It Seems!
Whilst returning home from a client I happened to pass a sign which I must have driven past at least a hundred times.
This time however, it really caught my eye!
I drove, first sniggering, then chuckling, on my way until I finally had to stop and wipe tears from my eyes. Then a thought struck me ... If I was to make the name of this place public via my blog, I could single-handedly save the British tourist industry from going down the pan this summer.
Now, I want all of your ladies to too keep a tight grip on yourselves and try to maintain some level of decorum when I tell you the name of the place. I want no fighting in airport or customs queues and I want you all to behave in a dignified fashion.
Are you ready?
The name on the sign was .....
.... Fferm Coch.
Ladies? Ladies? Is anyone still reading? Oh bugger!
As far as I can tell, it means Red Farm
Thursday, 3 March 2011
My Other Blog
If you have a moment take a look at The blog of Four Paws Animal Rescue.
This is where I post their success/funny stories, poems and some of their planned activities.
It's early days yet, but take a look, spread the word and if you like it ... well, you can follow, can't you.
This is where I post their success/funny stories, poems and some of their planned activities.
It's early days yet, but take a look, spread the word and if you like it ... well, you can follow, can't you.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Homer & Marge (Part Three)
Part Three of Homer & Marge which appeared as a guest post on The Mad Lady's blog yesterday.
The door slammed!
"D'ya speak to your bitch of a boss like you said ya said ya would, Homer?" yelled Marge even before the window panes had stopped vibrating.
Homer's feet flew from the coffee table as he pressed the stop button on the video remote. He remembered briefly the times when Marge would come home and strip in the hallway before entering the living room with a rose between her teeth.
"I did!" he replied. "This morning!".
"Did you assert yourself, like I tol' ya?" asked Marge as she entered the living room.
Homer crushed the empty can of Bud and hid it quickly in his pocket. "I went in there just like you said. All guns blazing." he blurted.
"Tell me!" demanded Marge.
"Well, I started by telling the ol' Thighbiter that you were pregnant and I asked for that promotion that's going in Planning.
She said it had already been filled. Marty Slackballs got it. So I said 'What about a raise? I've been here ten years. I deserve it!' and I slammed my fist on her desk, just like you said I should to show her that I was serious and then I said 'God dammit! I wanna go up in the world! I wanna be upwardly mobile! I wanna reach the top and I can't do that by sitting in the Internal Development Department shufflin' paper! I NEED THAT RAISE OR A PROMOTION!!!'
Stunned by the fact that Homer had actually done what she'd suggested, Marge asked "What did she say to that?".
"Well" said Homer. "She slammed her fist down as well and said 'Dammit Homer! I like a man with vim and vigour; some fighting spirit! If it was only down to me I'd give you a raise EVERY day! Leave it with me and I'll get things moving.'
"Wow!" said Marge. "What happens now?"
Homer shrugged. "I have to call Maisie in Personnel later today and find out how it went".
Marge went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Well done Homer! Have a Bud!" she said.
Homer grinned at Marge and winked "I'd rather have a ...".
Marge cut him off. "After you call Maisie! Now zip your pants up like a good little boy"
.... Later that day on the phone ...
"Hi Maisie, it's Homer. Please don't say ... "
"...doh! Dammit Masie! You said it!"
"OK don't apologise. I'll survive. Maisie? I'm calling because ol' Thighbiter ... I mean Mrs Legchewovsky ... was gonna sort out my raise. D'ya have any news for me?"
"Uh-huh!"
"Uh-huh!"
"Uh-huh!"
"Thanks Maisie. Gotta go! Take care."
"Well?" Marge enquired. "How much?"
"You promised me some wild and wicked rompin' if I got a raise. I bought some cream, a new tube of EZ-glide and some new batteries. Can we, er, do it now? Huh? Huh?"
"Stop your whining and tell me what she said first" said Marge playfully slapping his face.
Homer's face dropped and and he mumbled "uny ev'n".
"What?"
"uny ev'n".
Marge landed a round-house slap up-side Homer's ear.
"OW! 27! 27!" shrieked Homer, trying to soothe his pain by rubbing vigourously .
"27? What? A day? A week? What?"
"Floors!" said Homer.
"Huh?"
"Floors! Thighbiter's letting me go up in the world alright. And I get a 'raise' every day too!"
"Promotion?"
"Nope! She's having my office moved from the 4th to the 31st floor so she doesn't have to see my face any more".
"Damn!"
"Any chance of that .........."
"NOOOOOOOO!"
"..... romp?"
Marge stormed up the stairs, stomped into the bedroom and slammed yet another door.
After five minutes the bedroom door opened just a little.
"Homer!" screamed Marge. "Throw me up those damned batteries!"
The door slammed!
"D'ya speak to your bitch of a boss like you said ya said ya would, Homer?" yelled Marge even before the window panes had stopped vibrating.
Homer's feet flew from the coffee table as he pressed the stop button on the video remote. He remembered briefly the times when Marge would come home and strip in the hallway before entering the living room with a rose between her teeth.
"I did!" he replied. "This morning!".
"Did you assert yourself, like I tol' ya?" asked Marge as she entered the living room.
Homer crushed the empty can of Bud and hid it quickly in his pocket. "I went in there just like you said. All guns blazing." he blurted.
"Tell me!" demanded Marge.
"Well, I started by telling the ol' Thighbiter that you were pregnant and I asked for that promotion that's going in Planning.
She said it had already been filled. Marty Slackballs got it. So I said 'What about a raise? I've been here ten years. I deserve it!' and I slammed my fist on her desk, just like you said I should to show her that I was serious and then I said 'God dammit! I wanna go up in the world! I wanna be upwardly mobile! I wanna reach the top and I can't do that by sitting in the Internal Development Department shufflin' paper! I NEED THAT RAISE OR A PROMOTION!!!'
Stunned by the fact that Homer had actually done what she'd suggested, Marge asked "What did she say to that?".
"Well" said Homer. "She slammed her fist down as well and said 'Dammit Homer! I like a man with vim and vigour; some fighting spirit! If it was only down to me I'd give you a raise EVERY day! Leave it with me and I'll get things moving.'
"Wow!" said Marge. "What happens now?"
Homer shrugged. "I have to call Maisie in Personnel later today and find out how it went".
Marge went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Well done Homer! Have a Bud!" she said.
Homer grinned at Marge and winked "I'd rather have a ...".
Marge cut him off. "After you call Maisie! Now zip your pants up like a good little boy"
.... Later that day on the phone ...
"Hi Maisie, it's Homer. Please don't say ... "
"...doh! Dammit Masie! You said it!"
"OK don't apologise. I'll survive. Maisie? I'm calling because ol' Thighbiter ... I mean Mrs Legchewovsky ... was gonna sort out my raise. D'ya have any news for me?"
"Uh-huh!"
"Uh-huh!"
"Uh-huh!"
"Thanks Maisie. Gotta go! Take care."
"Well?" Marge enquired. "How much?"
"You promised me some wild and wicked rompin' if I got a raise. I bought some cream, a new tube of EZ-glide and some new batteries. Can we, er, do it now? Huh? Huh?"
"Stop your whining and tell me what she said first" said Marge playfully slapping his face.
Homer's face dropped and and he mumbled "uny ev'n".
"What?"
"uny ev'n".
Marge landed a round-house slap up-side Homer's ear.
"OW! 27! 27!" shrieked Homer, trying to soothe his pain by rubbing vigourously .
"27? What? A day? A week? What?"
"Floors!" said Homer.
"Huh?"
"Floors! Thighbiter's letting me go up in the world alright. And I get a 'raise' every day too!"
"Promotion?"
"Nope! She's having my office moved from the 4th to the 31st floor so she doesn't have to see my face any more".
"Damn!"
"Any chance of that .........."
"NOOOOOOOO!"
"..... romp?"
Marge stormed up the stairs, stomped into the bedroom and slammed yet another door.
After five minutes the bedroom door opened just a little.
"Homer!" screamed Marge. "Throw me up those damned batteries!"
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