To the Guy Who Crapped in My Parking Stall

What a stellar find that was passed along to me by my buddy, MRRRRRRP today.

Still snickering over, “I’m tempted to start out by saying, ‘You know who you are,’ but perhaps you don’t. […] First, you’re almost certainly male. Either that or you’re the 1976 East German’s Olympic Gold Medal Weightlifting Champion. There’s a slim possibility you’re a horse.”

All this is very coincidental seeing as we came across a random, rather large piece of fecal matter in our work parking lot today. Which made me think of the Sprinkle Brigade. Which made me confused about whether to laugh or dry heave. And I hate when that happens. I always omit some sort of pathetic, half-assed bleat, like a goat who can’t decide if he’s mad at you for sticking your hand in his face, or happy to get the attention.

In other news, my back and neck are knotted to hell. Think it’s out of line to ask my office to buy me a Herman Miller? I’m starting to feel like a hunchback.

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