Thursday, November 14, 2013

"Working" at work.

And now, more emails from work! Sara recently recorded a song she kind of sort of helped write with a friend from college (Sara: to answer your question...yes. I am a rock star. I'm accepting applications for groupies. No fat chicks). When he sent her the initial recording on his Soundcloud account, which includes a picture of him, she shared it with the family.

Sara: Look! It's me singing!
Dad: Wow!...who is the dude in the picture? I think I'm in love. Seriously...
Lindsay: Yah, the guy is a biscuit! Date him!
Sara: Uh, he's been in a happy loving relationship with his current girlfriend whom he lives with for a long time now so...that ain't happening.
Dad: What a wimp you need to be more like Tricia Yearwood the home wrecker...
Lindsay: HAHAHA

It's good for fathers to encourage their daughters to home wreck, right?* No? Oh well...have some more emails!
* Like Dad said, it worked out for that tart, Trisha Yearwood. Married to Garth Brooks (I'm not convinced that's a good thing…) and Paula Dean made her her bitch protege'. 

An email Sara sent to Lindsay. Just this. No prior conversation or context. Obviously she was really slammed at work that day. 
Sara: So I just got a weird idea to join a roller derby team. Bad idea? I think it's probably a bad idea.

Dad: Is it REALLY only 10:45??
Sara: I guess so and I am already in pain from how long the day is dragging on...
Mom: OH MY GOD! You whiners.
Lindsay: Well, at least none of you started your day having to get out of bed earlier than you wanted because someone shat out half their body weight. I was going to go to CrossFit, but I have a sore throat and I'm sitting in front of my space heater and I feel like making shitty excuses to not go.
Mom: Oh. I'm sorry.
Lindsay: It's okay. It needed to happen. He hadn't pooped in three days.
Mom: No I meant about you feeling poorly. I don't care about poop. I have many poop stories from both of you.
Lindsay: Oh. I don't feel that yucky. Like I said, I just want to make excuses...Maybe I should drink some breast milk to get some antibodies. Does it work if it's my own? That's weird. Why did I even say that?

Mom was telling us a story about a co-worker and some of his bizarre comments about his girlfriend. Though he's a very nice, docile man...he mentioned three times in a conversation that "my girlfriend loves me." The conversation was not about his girlfriend in any way shape or form. 

Mom: Not that I love her, but she loves me. Do you think that's odd?
Sara: ...yeahhhh that sounds like a Stepford husband or some shit...maybe she abuses him?
Lindsay: Maybe she's his dominatrix. HAHAHAHAHA eewww I regret saying that. Kind of. Not really. Hahahahaha.
Mom: Thanks for the picture. ….NOT
Sara: Ha! Right after I called abuse.
Lindsay: Or he's just a wet blanket.
Mom: Everyone talks about how nothing rattles him and how nice he is. Translation - BORING!
Sara: I hate boring people. They're the worst. At least assholes can occasionally have a good time. 
Mom: Nice people can be fabulous. Nice people that never get rattled and talk in one-tone, and never raise their voices, and brag they never get stressed equates to they have no dang feelings.
Lindsay: He sounds more like a serial killer to me.

Poop and breast milk and serial killers. You're welcome, America.