and thank you for that rasher of shit

A message for my employer:

I can't stop fantasizing about quitting my job. Nothing in my life has ever been as satisfying as I imagine it would be to explain to these people that there's a causal relationship between treating people like shit and those people no longer wanting to work for you. So who wants to pay me to sit on my ass? Starting tomorrow? I guess I should call the financial aid office or something.

Oh, but I forgot, I don't want to quit now because two weeks from today is Pizza Party/Hawaiian Shirt day. Thanks, MiniFun.

Anyways. You guys, Deadwood is back and it is so cocksucking good. I had forgotten how excellent it is to watch an bunch of foul-mouthed frontiersmen, whores, prospectors, and pimps — oh, and a drunken Calamity Jane, too — debate in Shakespearean tones about the future of their town, and then shoot a Cornish person in dingy long underwear and feed the body to some pigs. Or do surgery without anesthesia to remove a man's kidney stones. Or worship a stuffed moose head. I had a favorite line from last season, and earlier tonight I was trying to remember it, and I couldn't, and I felt like something incredibly valuable had been lost to me forever, but it's okay, I just remembered it just now: "Anyways, are you at risk for the plague?" This was an awkward attempt by the town sheriff (a man who walks as if his arms were made of jellied meat and would just fall off and lie on the ground jiggling if he ever moved them) at making small talk over the hotel breakfast table with the rich widow he was trying to make it with at the time. With whom he was trying to make it at the time. David Milch, teach me English.