Ted

In Boston, leaving his house at this moment, is a man we'll call Ted. His name is actually Dave, but we'll call him Ted. Ted is leaving his house, and is going to work. Then, because we have nothing better to to, we are switching from present tense to past. Ted went to work. His boss never could remember his name. Ted worked a lot. He worked in an office, collating, filing reports. Ted probably needed a hobby. After the day was done, Ted got paid, but due to a clerical error, was paid not in dollars but human finger bones. This, he figured, would be a problem during tax time. Undaunted, Ted went to his favorite bar, where someone said to him, "Hi, Ralph," in a conspiracy completely unrelated to this story. Ted drank a bit, and then went home. He was feeling unsatisfied, but Ted always was. Meanwhile, across town, a baby was born, in a hospital, in the dark. The power was out. It was supposed to be symbolic, but of what, no one could say. Probably something really stupid. Ted came home to his wife and they had dinner. Then, after eating, they went upstairs to have sex. Ted's wife was cheating on him. She was also kind of ditzy. We will call her Murray, which is almost like her name, Rhoda, except the two are nothing alike. Oh, yes. The affair. During sex, she accidentally called him by her lover's name which, coincidentally enough, really was Ted. Ted did not notice. He was busy orgasming. After sex, Murray asked Ted how he felt, and he said, "I don't know. I feel as though life is a story that doesn't end so much as

best post ever.

...what the **** was that.

Pure random. <3

And I didn't write it:(

I no longer love you:mad:

I demand to know who wrote this.

As is it excellent.

Jeffrey S. Power. Of the wonderful and elegant http://www.sixsixfive.com. Here is more.

Another Day at the Office

The first thing I generally see in the morning is my own face, looking back at me from my bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth. It's still a fairly young face, and though I defy anyone to look particularly alive within the five minutes after they've rolled out of bed, I don't have the look of defeat I used to. I haven't for years at this point, and this is because I am happy in my employ, and I get enough exercise and sleep. I don't dread heading into the office. I don't think this is a result of my job specifically so much as it is of my attitude. Perspective is everything, you know.

And so I get dressed, I put on the suit and tie (a half-windsor, much to my occasional shame), and comb my hair, and I'm off. Sometimes I take a little bottle of water with me, for the drive, and sometimes some orange juice. Generally it's water though, because you can never be too hydrated. Sometimes I listen to talk radio and sometimes I don't. Finding the right music for your morning is important, because it can set the tone for the entire day. There's certainly much to be said for simply humming a happy tune to yourself, as you drive. Tum-ti-tum, here's the overpass, hmm-hm-hmmm-hm-mmmm, and here's the office building. Park the car and here we go.

The door to the building is guarded by a sphinx who is generally pretty ornery, even on his good days. Today, I can see a few bones, sucked clean of marrow, littered around the doorway in front of which he sits, self-satisfied. The sphinx gives me a nod of recognition, and then digs his claws deep into the ground and begins to speak.

"Think of words that end in -GRY. Angry and hungry are two of them. There are only three words in the English language. What is the third?"

I pause, and make some show of scratching my chin. The sphinx kind of lives for this, so I don't want to tip him off to the fact that I know this and it's one of the oldest riddles (disguised as a simple vocabulary question) I can think of offhand. Someone did that once before, and he was on the verge of tears for the better part of his shift that day. And so I appear to be lost in thought for a moment, while he salivates and probably thinks about how I will taste. I say "Well, erm...hmm...that's, I...oh! Oh, I know! Language!"

The sphinx scowls, and opens the door. I resist the temptation to pat him on the head.

The office's receptionist is not so much a receptionist as a stone idol. It has been hollowed out, and pygmies sit inside of it, shooting poisoned blowdarts from its eyes. They are, however, easy to evade, so long as you know the pygmies' blind spots and are capable of crawling on all fours, which let's face it, even a baby is capable of.

The hallway that leads to my cubicle is tiled, not carpeted, which always struck me as a **** weird decision, it makes the place look so clinical. Although I suppose if they laid carpet over the tiles, that would be a bad thing, as it would cover up the letters on each tile. Which are sort of important. Most people see the portrait of Harry Houdini and his wife hanging on the wall at the beginning of the tiles, and they think to themselves that they should try jumping on tiles to spell out "Houdini." I think most people get as far as O before the massive trapdoor swings open and swallows them whole. I guess I would have made that mistake too, the first time, had I not noticed that the ring on Harry's finger stands out a bit and can be turned -- the painting is actually a music box. It plays "Rosabelle," which was their "song," and if you've guessed that you need to step on the tiles that indicate the notes to the song, well then, you're right as rain.

So that's what I do, and in a trice I am standing in my cubicle. It's a large one and also contains one of the few halfway-decent copier/fax machines in the office. Of course, you can't stand directly in front of the thing, or you'll trip up a plate in the floor that causes bamboo spikes to shoot from the wall. Very unpleasant stuff. It looks like the trap caught my boss, a middle-aged balding gentleman named George something or other. George is an affable fellow but he was just too slow today, and he looks up at me, knowing his end is near. "You...you've got to take this," he says, and hands me the funding reports he'd photocopied, "and...deliver it...to the VP of sales. It...it's too late for me...you...must do...this..." I frown compassionately, and give a solemn nod. "Go now..." he croaks out. "The fate and hopes of our budget reports rest on you..." And with that, he dies. I close his eyes and set my jaw.

There's a shortcut to the VP's office through the cafeteria, but it involves three ornate doors, and only one of them leads to the actual office. One of the other ones leads to a very hungry tiger, and the third...well, it's best if I don't say, really. The doors shift, too, and the correct one is different every day. There is, of course, a method for figuring out the right one, but it can take a while and at this rate I'd miss my coffee break. So instead I hustle to the mailroom, which connects two wings of the building (don't ask me; I didn't design the place) and hop into a mail cart. I could probably just hoof it to his office, but the floor of that hall is covered with scorpions (deadly, although I probably needn't even say it). Granted, the scorpions will all fall asleep upon hearing a particular tune played on the flute, but I think I left the flute in my car and it'd be a pain to go back and get it. As I roll by in the cart, I can see the scorpions skittering over Taormino from Accounts Receivable, and tut to myself. **** shame - the fellow was a hell of a bridge partner.

From there, it's a pretty simple task. The hallway leading up to the VP's door is sort of narrow and iron spikes periodically shoot out of the walls, but as I somersault and cartwheel through the hallway I think to myself that it's really not all that difficult to figure out the pattern. The skull on the floor, of an intern I believe, would probably disagree if it could.

I then press on the tongue of the demon that has been sculpted into the door, pull its left hand and push its nose, and the door slides open.

The VP of Sales looks up. "Morning," he says.

"Morning," I reply. "From George," and I hand him the reports.

He nods. "Thanks." And then he returns to his work. He's a nice enough guy, but he's one of those management folks that always seems sort of distant. I'm used to it by this point, so I see myself out, close the door, and head to the cafeteria for coffee.

Based on the two stories, once I click this link........ it will be the best sight ever.

Edit: This is indeed the greatest sight EVER.

[SIZE=7]WHAT'S WITH THESE AWFUL, INSANELY FUCKING MORONIC AND ABSOLUTELY UNFUNNY STORIES RECENTLY?[/SIZE]

THIS... IS... BRILLIANT

I thought this was about Bill & Ted :(

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.