I Self-Evaluate Myself So Much I'm Going to Go Blind

Here at work, our job performance reviews were coming up and my boss asked us to fill in the 'self evaluation' section - complete with 'goals' we want to attain for the coming year.

This begs the question: I'M SUPPOSED TO HAVE GOALS?!

Goals.

Mine were, 'stay employed' and 'bring home a paycheck.' I drew a blank for the third one.

However, my friend and FORMER coworker (not my fault, I swear), Kristin, was having trouble with her goals so I thought I'd help her out.

For reference, the crossed out names in the following IM conversation (E and K) are two girls who sit together in the office next to us and giggle constantly. Drives me batshit.

Enjoy.


Oh..now I have a third goal:

3) Don't get sued or fired for sexual harassment

That one's gonna be a toughie.

This is what happens when you IM me at 8:00 in the morning.

Sitting at work, my Instant Messenger pops up and the following happens with my friend and former coworker, Kristin.

At the time of this IM message, we worked together. Strange coincidence that after this conversation, she was let go.

*whistles and slowly walks away

For further reference, I attended the funeral of my uncle the day earlier.

Good times. Good times.

Enjoy.


In my defense I was literally on my first cup of coffee so I think I was still experiencing 'morning what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-me's' but, honestly, I was kind of bummed about her Sybian machine response.

All I can say is that if our IT Department DOES monitor our IM's, they must have a phenomenal sense of humor because I still work here.

I should probably put quotes around "work."

Little Debbie Wants My Ding Don

Please note that I wrote this post before my friend, Kristin, got shitcanned here at work.

Carry on.


My friend, Kristin, and I have too much time on our hands.

Well...I also have a little bit of toilet paper stuck there...but that's because of my chronic masturbation.

Yet another episode of "Sick Instant Messages with Kristin and Rod."

Enjoy.

*******************
midgetmanofsteel: I wanna go home.

Kristin: i think i'm going to leave early

midgetmanofsteel: I need to start really playing Lotto..this working shit is for the birds.

Kristin: no shit. i hate it

midgetmanofsteel: not that I'm actually working or anything...every so often...like, once every three hours..I might do something.

midgetmanofsteel: other than that...it's pretty much just drinking coffee and going to the bathroom.

midgetmanofsteel: I may send you a picture message next time I'm in there.

Kristin: that's cool. i got really lazy here lately.

****************

(editor's note: I just noticed she wrote 'that's cool' after I told her I'd send her a picture of my stool. WTF?!)

****************

Kristin: i lost motivation

midgetmanofsteel: maybe you can look for motivation under my desk.

*****************

(editor's note: To my girlfriend: Honey...that's just a joke)

(editor's second note: Kristin, ignore 'just a joke' note above..I'm dead serious)


*****************

Kristin: i don't know if you noticed but some of the people in charge are like ding dongs

midgetmanofsteel: ding dongs? they're round and chocolaty with a cream filling?

Kristin: not that good


midgetmanofsteel: you said ding dongs

midgetmanofsteel: personally, I'd prefer a ding dong over a twinkie

OMG OMG OMG I FUCKING HATE TWINKIES

Sorry. Tangent.

Kristin: not ring dings

midgetmanofsteel: wtf is a ding dong, then?

midgetmanofsteel: are ding dongs the things that look like small black penises?

Kristin: devil dogs

Kristin: those are the penis shaped ones


midgetmanofsteel: no...not what I'm thinking...

Kristin: funny bones

midgetmanofsteel: I know what a devil dog is...remember...I was a giant fat shit of a kid.

midgetmanofsteel: you're screwing me up now


Kristin: oh...do you remember star crunches?

midgetmanofsteel: little debbie

Kristin: y

midgetmanofsteel: she wanted my fat ass.

Kristin: i loved her

midgetmanofsteel: you were all lesbo for little debbie?

Kristin: no. i just liked her shit.

midgetmanofsteel: dude. that's even worse

midgetmanofsteel: two girls, one cup..cake.

Kristin: lol


Kristin: her food

midgetmanofsteel: HO HO's

midgetmanofsteel: what about these?

Kristin: oh yeah..those are good

midgetmanofsteel: actually..they look more like turds than black penises


Kristin: what about the choc covered wafer things

Kristin: i can't remember what those were called

midgetmanofsteel: not sure...I think they were called, 'choco wafer things'

Kristin: ah...they were called "wafers"

midgetmanofsteel: wow...creative

Kristin: did you know the little debbie twinkie was called a "golden creme"

midgetmanofsteel: sounds hot.

Kristin: i thought so

Kristin: if you squeeze it hard enough the cream will shoot out

midgetmanofsteel: Hey, Little Debbie...want my golden cream?

midgetmanofsteel: it's gold because I have an infection.

****************

Um...

I don't really have an infection.

Ding dong.

Wanted: A New Work Wife

If you follow me on Twitter or are a friend of mine on Facebook, you may have heard the news that my great friend and coworker, Kristin, was let go the other day.

After I was done sobbing and lying on the ground in a fetal position and then caressing her chair while building a candlelit shrine to her on the desktop in our cube, I realized something:

MY WORK WIFE WAS GONE.

Now sure, Kristin would go on about politics and her kids and generally shit I didn't care about half the time but we'd go get coffee and make fun of people together, like, all the time.

And now it was gone.

Sensing the urgency to fill this void, I created the following poster:



Then I hung it up outside my cube.


Cross your fingers this works.

Kristin would want it this way.

*fetal*

I Wonder if I Can Get Fired for Saying "Penis Rubbings"

My friend and coworker, Kristin, was working from home the other day when my IM popped up.

For reference, "Mike" is our boss and for some reason our IM programs are totally opening and closing and we're pretty sure it's because we're being watched.

Probably for entertainment purposes of our IT department.

Or for evidence to be used later.

Whatever.

Enjoy.

****************



hahaha.

She said 'cock' on Instant Messenger.

We're so fired.

..and THAT is why I'm a GENIOUS!

As you may or may not know, my longtime friend, cube-mate, and all-around general person who grosses me the Hell out on a constant basis, Kristin, moved out of my cube at work to a different floor.

Subsequently, once in a while, I'll get Instant Messages from her asking a question.

Sadly, none of them are, like, "We banging today?"

Work SUCKS.

Regardless, Kristin will IM me with valid, serious questions about work.

And THIS, folks...is why my gravestone will simply say:



Here you go:



This probably explains why we're not banging.

What an asshole.

We must do what we can to put an end to Sexual Harassment Training!!

Got this email at work the other day:


OH GREAT.

Yes..because the Sexual Harassment training we received before worked oh so well.

Then I re-read the subject line and immediately sent an email to my friend and coworker, Kristin:







Human Resources is silly.

Tell Me You Want My Dongle

NOTE:

The following post contains graphic language and some suggested nudity but basically just written in tech-talk so it will probably all go right over your head unless you really know computer shit and/or are from Bangalore at which point you'll have to go flog yourself or something (I have NO clue what those Baptists do) after you read it.

Enjoy.

And another Instant Message flurry with my friend, Kristin, commences...


So then I got really horny and had to rub one out in the men's room (third time's the charm!) and started writing this post because I know I have to work but this blog isn't going to write itself, boss...

..when I notice this:


???

Hot. Right?

But I have NO clue what it is but Kristin is one of those teabagging (not the good kind), sandwich-board wearing (not the good kind, either) political freakazoids so I HAVE to ask.


To be perfectly honest I DON'T have a thing for Ruth Bader Ginsburg and actually had to Google how to spell it and a bunch of pictures came up of her including some of her younger years:


Not bad.

Back in the day, I would have totally put my floppy in her access point.

Excuse me now...

I have to go flog myself.

Moog out.

Smack my Face and Call me Aang

I was bored at work the other day because no one had answered my question on Twitter whether or not pasting Mario Lopez' hair onto the Ayatollah Khomenei's head would result in a fatwa against me so I decided to IM my friend Kristin.

Work is hard, yo.

Anyway, Kristin had been complaining that her face hurt around her left eye at which point I assumed that her husband, Jeff, was abusing her which is nothing to be taken lightly, of course, but I was joking around and when joking around, nothing says 'funny' like spousal abuse commentary.*

*notsomuch

Also this scenario is pretty unrealistic since she could totally kick his ass PLUS even though she's married to him, Jeff is kind of gay and the best he could probably muster was, like, a semi-hard pinch or something.


So my morning was comprised of an Instant Message involving porn, spousal abuse, and The Last Airbender...and then writing this post.

Then I went back to my Mario Lopez/Ayatollah Khomenei project.

Seriously, am I gonna be in deep shit with the Arab world for this or what?

Meh.

Election Day...or Erection Day?

NOTE:

The following post is rated "TV MLSA" for mature content, language, sex and some assplay.


****************

My long time readers will recognize that I have a quite unorthodox relationship with my friend, Kristin.

By 'unorthodox' I mean 'I try to get in her pants..and she thinks I'm kidding and then tells me stories about her diarrhea.'

And then I stop bother her for sex for, like, a couple of minutes or something because I'm too busy vomiting.

It's awesome.

Here's a sample of a recent IM conversation we had here at work.

We had just finished talking about going out for drinks on Election Day which I had to ask her was WHEN? because unless there's nudity involved, I don't really pay attention too much.

Enjoy.


So then Kristin says she's "laughing" because she thinks I'm "kidding" which I kind of am (not really).

Gotta do SOMETHING at work, right? This is what we do.

This next part segues into a rant about this old jackass who sits across the row from me who is a cross between Mr. Rogers and some guy I want to kill because he chews with his mouth open ALL THE TIME and just generally annoys the piss out of me.


I swear I'm going to murder this asshole one day.

I'm assuming the only reason this chick married him is that he has a huge life insurance policy or some shit and she's just waiting for him to die.

Or put a contract out on him.

Maybe I'll hook her up with Kristin.

All guns. No sex.

Sucks.

The Prophetic Tea Bag Incident

I know what you're thinking about the title.

You people are SICK.

This is why I love you.

Well..not so much "love" as "want to do that funny swirly thing to you."

I think they're the same.

At least that's what the prostitutes say.

My friend, Kristin, handed me one of the tags from her tea the other day.

It read:


"The beauty of life is to experience yourself"

*blink*

Kristin: "Does this mean I should go home and masturbate?"

Me: "Yes. Yes it does."

*pause*

Me: "Your phone has a camera, right?"

The beauty of life is to experience yourself.

How prophetic.

Apparently, "life was beautiful" for me at about 10:15 last night as I watched "Super Ninja Doll" on Cinemax and experienced the crap out of myself.


Oh yeah.

Life was also beautiful for me in the shower at the gym this afternoon.

Um...

Helpful tip to the guys out there:

WEAR FLIP FLOPS IN THE LOCKER ROOM SHOWER.

That's not shampoo on the floor.

By the way folks, the fact that Kristin received this via "tea bag" has not escaped me.

It's how my mind works.

I can't help but picture that shit.


Great.

Now I have to go experience myself.

Life is beautiful once again.

Third time today.

I'm gonna need to start using some type of lotion.

Penis Poppy Muffin

I'm not feeling creative because I'm out of Vicodin and Tylenol PM (best. cocktail. ever) so all I've got for you today is this picture I took of a muffin my friend Kristin bought in the cafeteria that is, sadly, better hung than I am.


And then I watched her eat it ever so slowly and the day started to shape up just a little bit better.

Seeing Red - An Awful TMI Thursday

At age 41, ladies and gentlemen..

It happened.

Imagine a horror so true..so..so SURREAL…

That you wish you could undo time and completely avoid it.

Well, folks, I’m jealous of you because:

I don’t have to imagine.

Because. I . Just. Lived it.

(queue porn music)

WAIT! Wrong music!

(queue horror music like the Halloween theme or maybe something from The Omen or some shit like that)


Here's how it happened.

I was sitting at my desk at work.

I was possibly working but that’s highly improbable since I’m not really really clear what, exactly, I’m supposed to be doing here on a daily basis so every once in a while I’ll pretend like I’m interested in a meeting or some shit and ask a question that may be slightly relevant while my boss is around so it looks like I wasn’t a complete waste of a business investment and he leaves me alone except once in a while he pops in but luckily I have tilted my laptop AWAY from the aisle so he can’t tell that I’m Googling shit like “Oprah Winfrey vagina clothes” just to see what pictures come up.

FYI – I’m writing this whole fucking thing while I’m in my cube.


Regardless..there I was..alone.

My cubemate, Kristin, was not around…this was good because I didn’t have to listen to her babbling on and on and on about health care and tea parties and shit like that because she’s a psycho Republican and I may or may not be a Republican as well but I don’t really remember who I voted for but it probably wasn’t Obama because I live in New Hampshire and I don’t think they allow us to vote for black people.

It’s in our state constitution.

That may be wrong.

As I’m sitting there…minding my own business…

Kristin comes BOLTING into the cube.

Still standing, she looks at me and says:

(brace for it)

Kristin: “Is there blood on the back of my pants?”

* blink

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

What. The fuck.

Seriously…WHATHEFUCK?

Of all the fucking things to ask a guy, ladies, do NOT – UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES – ask him to verify if you have goddamn PERIOD BLOOD (OMG OMG OMG I’m going to throw up just typing that) ON. YOUR. ASS.

Never.

Never ever ever ever NEVER.


She then spun around.

I looked.

I mean, seriously..she’s showing me her ass. How do I NOT look?

Me: “I don’t see any.”

Kristin: “Your eyes are closed.”

Me: “I’m finding this the best method right now to LOOK FOR BLOOD FROM YOUR VAGINA ON YOUR PANTS thankyouverymuch.”

Kristin: “Seriously..is there blood there? It all just came gush..”

Me: “LALALALALALA…FINE. Fine.”

I tried to open my eyes but I believe that somehow I managed to squeeze them together so tightly that they fused shut. This is similar to the effect marriage has on a woman’s vagina but with much less NAGGING.

I squinted them open and looked.

Nothing.

Nothing but Kristin ass.

Me: “No. There’s nothing.”

Kristin: “Good. It just came flooding out and I tried to get a pad but..”

It’s at this point that I jammed a pencil in my ear and then eventually killed myself because MOTHER OF GOD SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP and now I’m writing this to you from my desk in Hell where I will burn for eternity while listening to William Hung’s CD over and over again while a constant loop of Fran Drescher laughing plays in the background and hundreds of tiny little Carrot Top clones pull my chest hairs out.

Way better than being asked about period stains and tampons and LALALALALALA sorry..sorry…I really really have to stop now.

THAT was Hell.

This is nothing.

***************************

For more TMI Thursday's, go visit Lilu over at Live it, Love it.

You'll laugh til you have blood coming out the back of your pants.

I'm going to throw up now.

Shaved for her Displeasure - Part Three (The Comic Strip)

So, I've now wasted two full days on this topic.

This is the third.

(for Part One click here...for Part Two click here...for English press 1..)

In these past few days, I've divulged to you the fact that my chest now resembles portions of the Mojave Desert.

Hold on...hold on...

Shit.

That tumbleweed just smiled up at me.

I'm guessing it's not a tumbleweed.

Never, ever, trust a hooker who just gives it away for free.

You're welcome.


Regardless...

Fully shaved and looking like just like Fabio except nothing remotely like Fabio, I came to work.

Now..I share a cube with my friend, Kristin.

This allows me to hear all of Kristin's fun-filled stories like:

1) How one of our older coworkers used to poo out her vagina

2) The time she shit herself in her own car while driving

3) The time she destroyed a gas station rest room with her explosive diarrhea

You know...I'm just thinking out loud here, but...

I really need to move to a different fucking cube.


Where was I?

Oh..yeah...the chest shaving story.

So, naturally, I come to work the next day after shaving my chest...

...and decide to tell Kristin.

Now, instead of telling you what happened, I have decided to create...

(wait for it)

MY FIRST EVER MENTAL POO COMIC STRIP!!

Why am I the only one clapping?

Whatever.

Here is how the simple conversation went:

(click to enlarge...that's what she said)


Seriously.

She was concerned that my chest stubble would be uncomfortable when I had sex.

Once I stopped laughing, this prompted me to ask:

1) Do you even KNOW me?

2) What the fuck kind of sex are YOU having where your husband's chest is rubbing all over you?

3) Wait...is that how I'm SUPPOSED to be having sex?! Rubbing my chest all over my wife's nether region?! No wonder I suck at it.

I don't remember that in Sex Ed, but whatever.

I remember 'put your back into it, boy!' but that was more of my uncle's suggestion.

Perhaps I've said too much.

But that's the last you'll hear - at least for now - about my newly bare chest.

Unless this tumbleweed has something to say.

Seriously...I think I just heard it say, "hola."

Free hooker stuff...fucking scam.

Moog out.

Kristin, You're Grossing me the F*ck Out.

Once again, my friend Kristin has bestowed upon me another guest post.

If you haven't read any of her stuff before, you can find some great tidbits at the following locations:

1: How to Scare a Celebrity

2: How Her Husband Got a Stinky Winky

3: Kristin Lets One Rip

That last one is her first guest post here.

It dealt with her going poo.

This one, alas, is no different.

I'm not quite sure what her f*cking problem is.

You've been warned.

Anyway - thanks, Kristin!!


*********************

So years ago I went to Newport, RI with my boyfriend's mother.

On our way home, I drank a big Dunkin Donuts coffee - which was not something I was used to having.

(editor's note: Dunkin Donuts is a phenomenal coffee/donut chain around the Northeast U.S....they actually have drinkable coffee...unlike f*cking Starbucks in Seattle...which tastes similar to drinking the results of an enema)

Shortly after finishing the coffee, I started getting REALLY BAD cramps.

I felt kind of stupid asking her to pull over somewhere so I could go, so I just suffered through it until she said that she had to get gas.

YES! Thank God! I CAN POO!

We pulled into a gas station and she got out - I, however, was in the middle of a major contraction so I could not. When it was over, though, I ran inside to the convenient store that was attached.

So I go to the last aisle and then see the sign for the bathroom.

Through my teary eyes I read the sign:

"Please ask for the key at the counter."

I was thinking: "HOLY SHIT...I'M NOT GONNA MAKE IT."


So I go up to the front and wait in line at the counter. Of course, I was like the 4th f*cking person.

By the time I got up there I had sweat pouring down my face.

I quickly asked for the key and then went back to the bathroom.

As expected it was a totally disgusting public bathroom.

Diligently, I went to work.

I worked as fast as I could to cover up every friggin inch of that f*cking disgusting toilet with toilet paper because - for this puppy - I HAD to sit down.

(Editor's note: I love it when a woman endearingly calls her shit "puppy" - it's so cute)

Once I was done covering everything, I pulled my pants down as quickly as I could.

Unfortunately, this created a breeze that blew the toilet paper right off - leaving a bare toilet seat.

MOTHER. F*CKER.

There was no time to fix it.

Why?

Because it came out like a firehose - that's why.

I couldn't stop it even if I tried.

It was LOUD.

*KABAM!*

*KAPOW!*

It smelled terribly, horribly BAD.

*STINKY!*

I was actually embarrassed because I could see people walking by the bathroom through the grate on the bottom of the door.

The smell HAD to be drifting out there into the store.

When I was finally done, I wiped my ass and pulled up my pants.

I turned around and almost passed out.

SHIT. WAS. EVERYWHERE.

Shit ON the toilet?

Check.

Shit on the floor?

Check.

Shit on the f*cking wall?

Check.

(Editor's note: ON THE F*CKING WALL?!?!)


I got paper towels and started cleaning it up but I couldn't stop gagging...

...so I just washed my hands and got the hell out of there.

Now every time I complain about a disgusting public bathroom I think of how I contributed to that.

(Editor's note: My condolences to the family of Guapo the janitor who had to clean up after you).
******************

Um.

Hello?

Anybody left?

You know, I had some complaints that I hadn't talked about poo here in a while.

I think this just about covers this blog for - oh - about a f*cking year or so.

Ugh.

Oh, and sorry guys, Kristin's married.

I know how depressed this probably makes you.

Not nearly as depressed as Guapo the convenience store janitor, though.

Poor bastard.

********************
If you're interested in doing a guest post, shoot me an email here and let me know.

Kristin Lets One Rip

Some things are just better left unsaid.

You may be saying this out loud, after you read the following post.

Let me explain:

My request for Guest Bloggers here at Mental Poo has led to my friend, Kristin, providing me with the following gem you're about to read.

Kristin has also provided the following fodder:

1: How to Scare a Celebrity

2: How Her Husband Got a Stinky Winky

Thanks, Kristin!!

In the end, it's simply a love story.

A gross, retina-burning, gag-reflex-inducing love story.

Here you go...enjoy.


YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

*********************

Kristin's Story (via email she sent to me):

"I had dinner with Linda after work one night.

On the way home, I started getting some MASSIVE stomach cramps.

You know the ones...

The kind that make you have to do Lamaze breathing.


I was only about 30 minutes from my house when they started...

...so I decided I could try to make it home.

Bad idea.

Bad, bad idea.


A little while later I’m now at the home stretch, in my own town...

...but the contractions are now much closer together.

I’m sweating.

Now I'm also starting to think strange things, like:

"Maybe I should pull over and run into the field. "

But I changed my mind figuring that I could probably get arrested or something for sh*tting on the side of the road.

Must. Keep it. In.

I was squeezing my butt cheeks together so hard that my ass muscles ended up hurting me for a week.


Anyway...

I was only about 10 minutes from home...

...when out of nowhere...

...it happened:

*BOOOM*

It really made a wicked *POP* sound…no lie.


TONS came out.

Tons.

And then I peed too...

...because you know that when you sh*t, piss usually comes out too.

Awesome.


So I couldn’t sit on my seat anymore because it was squishing the poop into my tooty and it hurt like someone was douching me with acid.

It was horrible.

It smelled like death.

But I never even thought once to open my window.


All I knew was that I had to watch my speed because I couldn’t get pulled over like this.

So I called my husband, Jeff, and said:

Me: "Open the garage door and get me a towel! And send our daughter to her room!”

Jeff: "Why...?"

Me: "JUST DO IT!!!"

Jeff: "What's wrong?"

Me: "I just completely sh*t my pants."

*cricket*

*cricket*

Jeff: "WHO THE F*CK DOES THAT?!?!"

(editor's note: good question here, Jeff)


So I pull into the garage and Jeff brings the towel down.

I get out of the car and look at the seat and it's just this MASSIVE puddle of brown water.

So I made it up to our bathroom and pull down my pants and all you could hear was piles of sh*t hitting the floor.

I was completely covered in it.

I had to throw my jeans away...

...and my underwear pretty much disintegrated.

(Editor's Note: I wrote about this potential poo-disintegration phenomenon back in this post...see? I KNEW it could happen!)

And, boy, did the water hurt my Va-J-J when I got in the shower.

On the bright side:

I never got an infection...

...and Jeff cleaned up my car without me even asking."


******************

Um.

Ew.

Quite a catch, eh fellas?

Hello? Hello?

Are you all still there?

Did you run away screaming?

I almost threw up WRITING IT.

See? I told you.

It's a love story.

A really, really sh*tty love story.


Um...

Thanks, Kristin.

Don't ever send me stuff like that again.

Thanks in advance.

Moog out.