Disgustipation

I'm not an old lady, but I can bitch about my health like the best of them. So dig this. I have this cold for about a month, then pick up stomach pains. Doc thinks the pains are caused by mucous from my cold. Gives me an antibiotic to treat whatever sinus or lung infection I've been having and sends me on my way. Meantime, my stomach still feels like crap and pretty soon I've come down with painful, cramping diarrhea. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.

Unfortunately, this is what life has come down to for the past few weeks: Kvetching about my aches and pains. Naturally, they didn't want to hear about it at the pickle factory -- you know working around food and all. So I've been home, not writing, not spending time in productive pursuits. No, just doing what I can't do at work during the day -- looking at porn, chatting, watching random webcams from Japan.

So I'm watching this one, a very mild scene taking place in an annonymous office in what must be about the middle of the night somewhere in Japan. I used the controls on my screen to move the camera around. I'm kind of pestering this guy as he's sitting there trying to read something to keep from falling asleep, but I can tell it's very, very hard for him. Hard would be the word of change here. Suddenly he shows me his dick. Just a three second flash. No smile or anything. Odd look on his face, really.

Was this little flash meant for me? How would he know or I know or anyone know? I'm talking back to the screen, I'm telling him, "Oh no you didn't," but I don't have a camera or a mic or anything set up so there's not even the remotist possibility that he heard me.

Before long a couple of guys walk into the scene, start hassling the flasher-dude, then bodily haul him out of the room. One of them gave the camera a wave. I waved back but I'm sure he didn't see.

Fun day at work. Glurp.

So there I was, minding my own business at the pickle factory the other day, when I began to become obsessed with world affairs. You know, who is Paris Hilton fucking, what's going on with Jessica's hair now that her marriage has fallen apart...that sort of thing. When suddenly, I realize that pickles aren't plopping out of the pickle plopper and into the jars. Something's gummed up the works.

So I get down off of my high chair, strip off my plastic gown and head into the machine room to see what's the matter. Yes, you guessed it. The pickle feed is clogged. So I climb up onto the pickle storage bin, open the hatch at the top and climb down inside. I'm walking on top of the pickles when -- Goddamn! -- I start to sink into them. Deep! Before I can say cucumber I'm up to my neck in pickles.

Good thing for me that my ever-present boot-licker Maxine has followed me into the bin. She gets on her cell phone, calls her mom, then calls her sister, and then calls the control room to have them shut off the bypass pickle feed, which has been causing me to get sucked down. So I'm stuck in there, soaked to the bone in pickle juice, while Maxine makes a few more personal calls (on company time!) before dialing 911. And just in time. The fire department shows up after awhile, and why not take your time because what fire department knows anything about pickles, you know?

Eventually, they haul me out of there, berate me for doing something so stupid and then take me out for beers. I had a few and got lucky with the waitress.

And that, dear children, was how I met your alcoholic mother!