A trailer loaded with veiny rubber dildos and various other exotic handsexing paraphernalia slams through an elementary school's gate at recess time. A cavalcade of raunchy-named pleasure devices hail down onto preteens in a holocaust of pornographic precipitation, and this only barely describes the chaos we've already faced this week.
After releasing a forecast which portends Q2 success somewhere akin to post Civil War Reconstruction and Crystal Pepsi, various bosses of bosses have taken to heaving sharp lead projectiles into the chalk hull of our career ship with gauged precision. Project cancellations and an exodus of technical expertise has our once heralded sales funnel now vomiting rum-scented future profits into an Applebee's dumpster. We're going through our Rolodex of market contacts, like hot bullets do Carl Landry, with a complete disregard for self respect, honor or health.
If worklife hasn't pushed a stroke out of us, getting chokeslammed by the bucket of cunts at our condo association could. We're Britpopface, Kate Nash, this week and there are fucking cracks in our foundation. It appears as though Hell isn't willing to wait, as judging by the rift in our Pergo floor it appears to be coming for us. Scheduling remediation and assigning ownership of liability to date has proven to be just easier than teaching kittens a Slavic dialect.
As bad as it is, we know someone who feels the same: