She joins Vexol the Redeemer, Margo, and Frances. I hope that they get along with one another.

So, you can eat eggs on Fridays during Lent without it being considered a chicken but a fertilized human egg has a life which begins at conception and is quantified as being human when fertilized? What?!

I HAVE A JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IN PULASKI!!!!!!!!!!!! WHICH I CAN WALK TO!!!!!!!!!!

Pairs' Figure Skating. Olympics.

That bitch didn't fall due to error in that throw quad. That was a ploy for sympathy of the judges. I've skated since I was 3, taken lessons since I was 12, and one doesn't fall that smoothly if he or she is truly injured. If he or she is injured, they go into shock immediately. She wasn't even shivering. That was total bullshit.

My parents and I went out for Sunday Brunch at a local brewery and grill place today. The broasted chicken was glorious and I found out that they have the trivia with the handheld devices at the bar, making this the first place I have found in Green Bay with such wonders. I'm going to have to gather up my nerds one night, get a few pitchers of homebrew, and test the level of my otherwise useless factual knowledge.

There was also this astounding Family of Bad Sweaters at the table across from our booth. It was like watching the wardrobe of "The Cosby Show" eat buffet. There were approximately 7 adults and 4 children, each donning a sweater so foul and garish that I was mesmerized for a full 10 minutes by the fluctuating sea of bold, disharmonious colours and busy geometric shapes.

There was also 80s hair. It was early 80s hair, too; that mysterious transition between the limp shapelessness of 70s hair and the era of the poodle bangs. The men all had curly hair, thus accentuating the uniform helmet of unparted, untapered coiffure. The women displayed both the short and long versions of scraggly early 80s hair. One of the women (the one in the oversized black V-neck cardigan with the first buttons near the navel and florescent argyle pattern on the front) even had a black leather bomber jacket with "PACKERS" emblazoned across the back and green and gold trim on the cuffs and waist.

I tell you, Killoggs, this family was my own personal gorgonian monster. I would have attempted to capture it on film but I feared rousing its cognizance and facing the relentless attack of diamonds and triangles and gold hoop earrings that would no doubt result from my photographic efforts. Family of Bad Sweaters, I salute you. You have collectively done the unthinkable and stolen The Gold Medal of the Unfashionable from Blonde Texan Exotic Bird Woman and Entire Polish District of Chicago. You are both magnificent and terrible, Family of Bad Sweaters.

Dear Sir or Madam:

I am sick of wasting my time composing cover letters to impress you for the job openings advertised in the local paper which sport such tired catch phrases as “multi-tasking” and “able to adapt to change in a fast-paced work environment.”

The truth is that I would like a paycheck and health insurance. In exchange for that I will complete my duties in a timely manner. In fact, I will complete my duties more quickly than my co-workers because I never caught on to the whole deal where people take 4 hours to do something that can be done in 15 minutes in order to draw out the workday and not appear to be expendable.

I am organized (at least at my jobs), anal retentive, and a perfectionist. I actually care about the quality of my work regardless of what I think about your company. My ego will accept nothing other than flawlessness.

I am also honest. If I screw up I do not shift the blame to someone else unless they actually deserve partial blame.

I can bullshit. I have bullshitted with CEOs of Fortune 500 companies that I cannot name because of confidentiality agreements. I have bullshitted with the French, the Germans, and the British. My prowess at the art of workplace bullshit is outstanding. If an important client from Russia rushes in (ooo! I can do wordplay too!) I know how to greet him or her properly.

I know many random things that you would eventually appreciate.

Have I mentioned that I have the most handsome cleavage?

Thus, I not-so-humbly submit my application for your consideration.

What the fuck? I have an I.Q. the size of one of the larger states and I’m groveling for a secretarial position? Are you serious?

Sincerely,
A_____ _. _________

"You must provide information regarding your gender. Due to the extremely sensitive nature of this position, which involves touching and patting down airline passengers,
the TSA requires a certain ratio of males and females."

"I have at least one year of training and work experience in identifying dangerous or deadly objects in baggage, cargo, and on passengers and preventing those objects from being transported onto the aircraft.

"Do you have experience performing pat-down searches of individuals?"

All questions from the TSA job application process, which has my jaw steadily declining to the floor at the moment.