My love affair with cereal. Oh, and vampires.

I wish to talk about two things today. First, cereal. I think I could, honest to God, live my entire life eating cereal. I have Raisin Bran Crunch in front of me. It's amazingly tasty. And it's so SIMPLE. There's no bullshit here, just a bowl, the flakes, and some milk. You can't mask unpleasantness in ketchup. You can't really RUIN it by adding in outside elements (under the assumption you're not a flaming retard and using sour milk). The craziest thing you can do to cereal is slice a banana into it, and that's not all that crazy.

Cereal is beautiful in its delicious simplicity. I endorse it.

My second topic is vampires, though not really in fiction. Best Friend Thing (BFT for short. Wow, that could be BIG FUCKIN' TITS too but - well wait, that works.) Anyway, we went to Nola about five or six years ago. We brought the significant others in a fabulous double date of debauchery, booze, tours, and food. Enter late night vampire tour. Enter Vlad Tepes Knight, who Dave affectionately titled Vlad Herpes Knight. We didn't think much of the portly Gary-Oldman-esque Semitic looking dude until he handed Lauren his business card at the end of our tour. Even that didn't blip irregular on our radars until we got home to Massachusetts, and yours truly decided to look Vlad Herpes up on the interwebs. Come to find out, our friendly neighborhood faux blood sucker was advertising for . . . wait for it . . . SEX SLAVES. They had to be pale, and have long dark hair. They had to essentially look like Lauren. The kicker?

"I am happily married to the love of my life Victoria, and she understands the dark passions of the vampire and is quite open to me slacking my lusts upon other women."

Ahhh, memories. Lauren, I am lol'ing at you RIGHT NOW.

Also: OOPS.

I have no idea how I deleted the Pagan Stabby people posts. I didn't do it on purpose. I blame huffing, which I apparently do frequently.

Sorry folks. I DO NOT WAVE THE CENSORSHIP BAT AROUND. I AM JUST STUPID.

Where she discusses the title of her blog.

I actually blame Lauren (I know, act surprised. I blame Lauren for everything). For some reason Lauren is tortured by zealots ranting about the rapture that's coming. For anyone unfamiliar with what the Rapture is:

In Christian eschatology, the Rapture is the name given to the future event in which it is believed that Jesus Christ will descend from Heaven, accompanied by the spirits of all the saints of God, both from the pre-incarnation period and after, who have passed on prior to the rapture, and then the bodies of the saints are joined with their spirits in a resurrection - the First Resurrection - to meet the Lord. Immediately after this, all true Christians alive on the earth are simultaneously transported to meet the Lord and those who have preceded them in the air as well, all, having been transformed into immortal bodies like Jesus' body, often referred to as the "resurrection body".

Thank you Wikipedia.

ANYWAY. Maybe it's because friend-bot works in Boston and has more exposure to Rapture wielding lunatics. Maybe it's because she's a good Christian (LAUGHING LOUDLY) and the Christian militia can smell another good li'l soldier of Christ. Maybe it's just because I'm fucking scary looking. I don't know what it is, but NO ONE HAS EVER TRIED TO SAVE ME WITH THE RAPTURE. I'm starting to take it personally. So, as an Ode to this greatest of Christian salvation events, I named my blog after it, hoping beyond hope that I too can become a champion of the Lord and go to heaven when all the other good Christians do.

Please, Jeebus? Please?

Here's to hoping.

That'll learn ya.

Dumbass.

The only satisfaction I got from reading this was that it happened in Wales, but boy genius is in fact English.

Someone botched their roll!

GG, Madame.

LEBANON, Ind. - A woman accidentally stabbed herself in the foot with a 3-foot-long sword while performing a Wiccan good luck ritual at a cemetery in central Indiana.
Katherine Gunther, 36, of Lebanon, pierced her left foot with the sword while performing the rite at Oak Hill Cemetery, police said.

Gunther said she was performing the ceremony to give thanks for a recent run of good luck. The ceremony involves the use of candles, incense and driving swords into the ground during the full moon.

Gunther said was aiming to put the sword in the ground, but hit her foot instead.
"It wasn't the first time I performed the ritual, but it was the first time I put a sword through my foot," she said.

Gunther immediately pulled the sword out of her foot, and her companions took her to Witham Memorial Hospital, where she was kept a couple days for treatment. No charges were filed, police said. The Wiccans were warned that being in the cemetery in the city about 20 miles northwest of Indianapolis after posted visiting hours constitutes trespassing.

Wicca is a nature-based religion based on respect for the earth, nature and the cycle of the seasons.

(I blame Dave for this horribly NERDY post title).

Douchebaggery HOOOOOO!

So there's nothing they can do. I am, as they say, up shit's creek without a paddle regarding the job situation.

I'm past the emo . . . wait, maybe not:

Okay NOW I'm past the EMO HILLARYS ARE EMO phase and more onto the ROCK ON BITCHES I'LL SHOW YOU phase. I had a long talk with the supervisor who has supported me since this process began a month ago, and she's not only pushing for me to get full time hours with the company, she'll be pushing for me to become Support.

What is Support, you may say. Besides the wonderous thing bras do for funbags, Support is the on duty liason between the phone reps and the managers. Essentially? They are junior managers and get the fun job of not only directing phone rep traffic, but taking escalated calls. Yes, that's right. I'm volunteering to get screamed at by people angry about television. Why? Mainly because they don't get to me that much. Honestly, they can tell me my mother is a goat licking arse jiggler, threaten me, yell, and do their best to make mayhem on my eardrums and it won't even blip on my radar. It's just tv. Probably an awful attitude to have, but seriously, television is not open heart surgery that is required now or you will expire. Read a book, take a walk, call your friends or family, play solitaire. Go get your jollies looking at pony porn. ANYTHING is acceptable (save for putting your spouse in a blender). Just please keep in mind, your tv is not your life.

Enough of that soapbox, though. The point of this post is to say I am letting the promotion problem go and looking forward, cause it's the only way to look.

Fuck the man. Right in his ear.

What's wrong with me?

No really?

Well a lot, probably, but over the past six months I have been a good employee for Comcast. I've had at least a half dozen customer compliments, two MOE's (awards, big important ones). I've got a boss that's incredibly supportive, and a team of managers that seem to think I'm the beans. I've doubled my sales numbers and made my metrics. I have done my job plus some.

Inevitably a job opens that would be a great opportunity for me, and I'm up for it! Yay! I talk to the boss in that department. My performance and my five years of sales background really seem to interest her. All around this is a good fit, we think, and they start to pursue me as a better-than-average candidate.

A pre-interview, then another. All is looking wonderful.

Then, on the day of my first official interview with my spiffy resume and accomplishments behind me, I walk into the HR office and . . . fail the personality test. She can't even interview me for the position because according to a test riddled with statements like Agree or Disagree: I have never been jealous, I am not fit to sell for Comcast. You need to score a 24 on their personality test in order to be granted the interview, and I scored a 23. I missed it by one point. Mind youn I'm fit to double my sales numbers every month (which I've done since hire). I was fit to sell millions of dollars worth of uniforms for Aramark for five years and position within the top ten percent of their sales team, but the fourteen page personality test says I'm not right for this particular position, that I would be a mark against their department.

Huh?

Not only is this upsetting because I know I can do the job, it's upsetting because I can't get past the niggling part of my brain saying that there's something wrong with me. I tested weird and out of the ordinary, and even though the evidence of my aptitude suggests this is a logical and smooth transition, I failed because there's something wrong with me. That's what the test is saying isn't it? "You might be the perfect candidate on paper, but the real you just isn't what we're looking for. Sorry!" The amount of stress this incident has caused me is pretty hideous. I have crappy self esteem anyway. I'm starting to believe my self deprecating humor about being a social pariah.

It's tough knowing that you've managed to turn your life around by making the right decisions at your job and it's still not enough.

Dave's Find.

So Dave sent me some Triumph the Insult Comic Dog fun, and it's worth the nine minutes. It's fat jokes and nerd jokes and . . . Jesus Christ he's horrible but goddamn it's funny. The best line? "Go up to Stan Lee and ask him to sign your boner."