So yesterday my company had our team building / strategy session thang (off site - how lucky am I?!) which Super H and I completely agreed on the fact that it was a right royal fucking waste of our dear and duhling time... The things a tart has to do to get ahead in this world just breaks my spirit sometimes.
There Super H und I sat, trying to alternate the numbness that was starting to settle in from one beatiful butt cheek to the next, whilst one director after the bloody other droned one about scheit that quite fucking frankly: has fuck all to do with our team. Now if the Tweedle Twins and god forbid Butthead could actually catch a fucking clue and do their god damn jobs, life in general would be rather pleasant. Yes that's right we could skip-to-my-Lu in Pleasant-Ville... If only the big cheeses could smell the fucking roses!
I'm not quite sure exactly what they expected, none of us are going to join hands and sing songs whilst yelling: rah rah like the uber pathetic Rhodean girls in this town! For fuck's sake people get a life and for that matter stop holding up mine..
Of course Super H and I decided that the only way to remedy a day like that was to get drunk and party like it was 1999! Unfortunately Karma had other plans for us and so I am left with a severly bruised foot and a feeling of bitter disappointment at what could have been a wild and debaucherious evening.
Super H and I figure that Karma owes us big time and we shall be collecting on this little debt next week Friday when the party shoes will be polished, skirts will be worn and debauchery will be in the air!
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