Aseptic Arse.
I don't drink. It's just something I don't do. But still, honestly, at this very moment, I could use a scotch. I don't care how rancid, burning, bitter, scandalous or ridiculously good it is--my brain needs it. Mindless hours gape their mouthless jaws at my mangy frontal--as I sit and ingest, minute after minute, the aseptic air that circulates my comfort zone.
My job is simple. Cut. Paste. Ala cut. Ala paste. Ala what? Al-a-waste.
That's right, 15 dollars a pop--I am a dirty computer whore in the crimson district of this biotechnology pimp house. Obviously you think I'm complaining. And I say to you: correct. But for 15 dollars an hour, why wouldn't you care for such mindless work? Well, at the moment the witty corner of my flacid brain has caught a cold and deflated. Instead, I will answer you with this:
My brain is:
a) pink (but grey!)
That is all.
My job is simple. Cut. Paste. Ala cut. Ala paste. Ala what? Al-a-waste.
That's right, 15 dollars a pop--I am a dirty computer whore in the crimson district of this biotechnology pimp house. Obviously you think I'm complaining. And I say to you: correct. But for 15 dollars an hour, why wouldn't you care for such mindless work? Well, at the moment the witty corner of my flacid brain has caught a cold and deflated. Instead, I will answer you with this:
My brain is:
a) pink (but grey!)
That is all.
posted by Henry at 7:26 PM
1 Comments:
What's the ultimate science fest? What exactly is your job? And alcohol is something I'm gonna see to it that you do! =P Ok, so I won't force you, but maybe some wild and crazy NSC parties will occur this school year.
Post a Comment
<< Home