For a little while today I appeared to be alone in my concern about moving into the Death Barracks. I'd say,
"You know there isn't going to be any "health-type inspection, right?"
And my co-workers would shrug,
"Craig says that he is going to put a porta-potty at each door AND that I can have my own office."
"Craig says that they are going to vacuum up the rat feces and I can have my own office!"
"Craig says that they are going to set traps and hang a cross and I can have my own office!"
Livestock. Dull-witted ruminants.
"Well, CHET, did Craig tell you that the molecules of asbestos could be tracked into your HOME from WORK and shrivel Madelines OVARIES? It could make Prince Rutherford shoot crazy deformed cat sperms?"
(His show cats — Madeline and Prince Rutherford)
Well, that got some reaction. He actually YiPED. Like I'd pinched his soft parts.
"Oh yes!" I said, "I used to be a vet tech."
Actually I never have been anything even remotely approaching a vet tech. Maybe a tetch fecked.
"We saw it all the time," I continued, nodding sadly. Throwing in a wince. "Kittens with no fur or legs…or ears…like eels that shit in your houseplants, I imagine."
He scurried into Craig's office and closed the door. Now Craig isn't talking to me and I'M REALLY HUNGRY.
Chet's wife is an attorney.