The Land of the Living

Here I am...  A day late, and a dollar short.  (I'm sure I owe somebody a dollar, anyway.)  I thought briefly about posting yesterday even though I was home sick, but by the time I cast a line out and reeled my head in from across the street, I had fallen back asleep.

Anyway, here's a story for you, and it's even true.

This weekend, I had a work function, the kind that involves beer and schmoozing with customers.  My boss played on of those bar games where you punch the punching game for points.  He got enough points, and the machine spat out a prize in a plastic sphere.  Shrugging, he gave it to me.  Being the curious sort, I opened it right away.

BAD IDEA.

Honestly, where is my robot?  You know, the one that will wave it's arms and cry, "Danger, Dana the Biped, Danger."

I opened the prize and promptly regretted my existence.  I'm not certain whose existence my boss regretted, mine or his own.  Probably both.

In that innocuous plastic sphere, which I had opened in front of God, my coworkers, and a good number of our customers, was not the plastic soldier with a plastic parachute or something expected like that.  Oh, no.  I lucked out enough to get the frilly underpants.


(True:  I recently saw a video of one of the guys I work with at karaoke singing with no shirt on, with lots of women rubbing up against him.  Knowing this guy as I do, the part that upset me was the fact that his hair is so much better than mine.  Also, my life is pretty strange.)

Dear Dora, I'm really sorry that this is the week you were stuck with me.

(Update:  I just decided I didn't blog yesterday because SOPA sucks.  Unless you speak Spanish, and are talking about soup.  Soup is cool.)