My mother is still stuck at work too. She the school secretary. School was dismissed 3 hours ago, but not everyone has picked up their kids yet.
Spike's Bitches 38: Well, This Is Just...Neat.
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risqué (and frisqué), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
I want to visit Miracleman's office. Perhaps taunting the natives with coffee. And Cheetos.
Yes, I live dangerously.
22 minutes to go...
...Sherpas have finally deserted me, cowardly dogs that they are. I am writing this huddled around a small fire I've started in a copy room. The printer repeatedly flashes its plaintive "paper jam - please clear paper" message, but I will not touch it. I will not have its ebon essence on my fingers.
I will have to strike out on my own. The one mule has developed a limp (it stumbled over a stray Ethernet cable two days ago) and I fear it has gone irreparably lame. I will have to bludgeon it with a stapler. The good news: I can smoke the meat; hopefully it will strengthen me for the trek ahead.
I hear a rustling down the corridor...it may be a Supervisor. I will hide in this cabinet and make my move later...
16 minutes to go...
...Blast and damn! The Supervisor found me in my hidey-hole! Snarling, she sprang upon me, determined to take me back to a cubicle, there to rot. I would surely be there now, flinching like a wounded dog at every shrill scream of the phone had I not been able to blind and confuse the Supervisor with a fax confirmation and a cry of "Is this yours? It says 'Urgent'!" Baffled, she clutched at the paper to peruse it and in the interval I managed to slip away.
But the mules and supplies had to be left behind. I have only my staple remover, a disposable lighter and my wits to guide and protect me.
What is this? An emergency evacuation map! Perhaps I am yet saved. Which stairwell am I near? The "You are Here" dot has been defaced...I shall have to do some scouting.
2 minutes to go...
...this may, perhaps, be my last entry. If any should find my bod and read this, know that I went with as much dignity as I could muster while wearing a loincloth made of a polo shirt and held on with a length of printer cable.
The door to the parking lot stands near. I shall make my move as soon as the District Manager leaves the break-room. Will the cursed man ever finish putting Sweet and Low in his coffee?
He's moving! He's gone! Now! NNNNOOOWWWWW!!!....
It was a long trek, and at the end of it, we couldn't say if it was a success. Oh, we found traces of our quarry--gibbering supervisors, staples strewn acros the landscape--but never a confirmed sighting.
We heard his cry--"Send me ho-o-ome!"--through the gloom, but he's a wily creature, that geek in the mist.
If only he had a Great Dane to carry him home!
Or a camel. . .
"The Last Camel Died at Noon" (by Elizabeth Peters)
One of her better titles.