See, Mike Benton is on my couch right now, asleep.
And Bart Simpson ran into the White Stripes this past week, while playing "The Hardest Button to Button."
OK, that's just awful.
Maybe this will make you feel better?
Two bombshells dropped yesterday.
One is that Summer gave her two-week notice yesterday. The best worker we've got, and pretty much our company's longest-tenured employee, gone, just like that.
In two weeks, anyway.
The mood in the office, yesterday, was one of utter depression and fear. And a lot of head-shaking, and "Goddammit"-style muttering.
It's going to suck without her. Even if we find a solid replacement... it's just going to suck without her.
Congratulations on the new job and all, but... BOOOOOOO!
The other, er, bombshell, is that Mike arrived safe and sound. And after showing up at my place, we reconnoitered with the old trivia team of Dan, Jay and... um... some other guy whose name I forget.
It was a blast, save for having to get up to take calls and text message. No worries; the guys gave me an appropriately shit-ass time for doing so.
Anyway, just about every time we go out (through no doing of mine, mind), we place in the money. And last night was no different, as we tied for first amongst 25-30 teams at the bar.
Sounds great, huh? We kicked some ass, right?
Wrong. We lost first place (the difference between a $100 gift certificate and a $50 gift certifcate) on a tiebreak that was... um... more in Mike's wheelhouse than Britpop is in mine. Something relating to his current job. Something relating to f'g national security.
See, Mike is in charge of something, down in the D.R.
God only knows how that happened.
And yet, when asked a question about said "something," Mike completely whiffed. Came close to guessing the correct number, but not close enough. And this... is an important number. Something he definitely should know.
We are all gonna die, in other words.
Or, at least, the inhabitants of the Dominican Republic will.
But let's hope not. Mike only has two months to go before... er... the risk will have been averted. He'll be gone, the citizens will celebrate, and it will be Copenhagen that needs to worry.
Way to go, Benton.
Our team name? "Somali Nuns and Anna Nicole's Sons." Not quite as perfectly offensive as we were hoping for, but close enough, I suppose.
We'll do better, next time.