| When life gets you down, watch a pimp get beat up! |
[Mar. 14th, 2005|02:39 pm] |
So fucking long since I last posted to this thing. I was beginning to wonder whether my sanity would survive.
I have recently started a new course at Tafe, Diploma of locksmithing. All I can say is, WHAT. THE. FUCK. I didn't even know you could get certificates for it, let alone a fucking diploma! It's an easy course to do. In fact, it's so easy that it's like handing a criminal the keys and alarm codes for your mansion and saying "Rob me mother fucker!".
Thta's how bored I am at the moment. It's as depressing as all hell, so I have to find things to lift me up again. And believe me, there's nothing like watching a clip of a pimp getting beaten up to lift my spirits. Of course, spirits also help to do that as well.
Anyway, between watching a pimp get beaten to hell and back, working, going to tafe, and sticking large white buttplugs where they don't belong, not much else has been happening.
Ciao for now,
Ronnie_Mac |
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| He's back! |
[Dec. 8th, 2004|06:26 pm] |
Yes, the world famous magical clown is back!!
I moved last week, but only just got my brand spanking new cable connection done today!
Just one down point to itall though. With all the moving and walking to and from work now, my poor coxic area feels like it's been raped several times by a blind man.
I'm in constant fucking pain at the moment. Oh well, the price you pay for getting away from annoying relatives.
Anyway, it's just a quick one this time to let yas know what's happening..
Ciao for now
Ronnie |
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| Dear god, please save me... |
[Nov. 15th, 2004|03:49 am] |
From all those damn friends and relatives that everything for nothing!
Let's start with an easy one for a change. My lawn hasn't been mown in 6 weeks. I don't do it because I ABSOLUTELY hate pushing those damn mowers around. But I have also learned not to pay a friend (whose business is mowing lawns) to do it as well. It starts with a half-assed job (edges not trimmed, patches missed), and then ends up with me paying him for the work. And to top it off, he wants me to pick him up and drop him off so he can do it!
Not f***ing likely! I don't pay him to use up my petrol and time to do my lawn.
Anyway, let's keep moving.
As thos eof you who know me would already know, my mother has taken up residence in my house. Annoying enough at first, it has now got to the stage where I am actually looking for a little one bedroom place for myself to get the f*** outta here!
Her boyfriend is always jabbering on about something, and he has no sense of propriety at all. I could be riding one of those buttplugs and he would just open my bedroom door and walk in. It's gotten that bad that I have a HUGE sign on my door reminding him to knock before even thinking of touching the handle.
And my mother! Oh. My. God.
I let her use my car on the condition that I get it back with the same amount of petrol in it that I originally had. Another Not f***ing likely! A case in point: They used it to go to a 50s rock night at a pub out woop-woop way from here. I get it back with only a fraction of the petrol left and that then leaves me stuck for getting to work as my money is going in to moving costs at present.
It just makes me want to scream all damn night! It's not like she couldn't afford the $30! I mean, she works for Telstra for crying out loud!
Oh well, the perils of family friends will always come back and bite me on the butt.
Ciao
RM |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 12th, 2004|04:40 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  annoyed | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | The Rasmus - In The Shadows | ] |
Who knew that being a locksmith could get so damn messy? I certainly didn't. At least, not until yesterday that is.
My boss has put a new workshop in his backyard. It's one of those timber sheds you get from cubbyhouse places. Looked nice, but he decided he wanted to stain the fucking thing. Great....
I get lumped with the job of staing it. I thought paintbrush, tin and my hand would be doing it, but no, he decides to break out this crappy little sprayer that is powered by a vacuum cleaner motor. It leaked, it sprayed, it also sprayed backwards!
I ended up with more Jarrah stain on me than on this bloody workshop. I had to go to the shops after doing that, and I got complimented on my suntan... WTF?!?!? I hated to tell the person behind the counter that it wasn't a suntan, but rather a wood stain that I was hoping wasn't permanent.
And that was just top off the last couple of weeks.
I also do some work on the side as a call out tech support guy. I shoul never have started that shit up! I'm at the point with it now where I'm ready to tell anyone who calls me to "Ride my large white buttplug to hell".
It all started with one job. I could not make this guy happy... when I fixed one problem, he would call back 2 hours later with the same damn problem as before! He was that stupid. I'd told him about 30 or 40 times not to go in to the control panel as everything was working perfectly now. Namely, the Administrative Services > Services section. He had a habit of killing almost all the services in there, because he thought it would free up memory to play his games. What a fucking moron....
Of course, as soon as he killed one or two, his computer would crash and he would call me. I was at his place five times in five days to fix the same damn thing. I should've learned the first time. I eventually just modified his start menu so he couldn't even get to the control panel. Surprise surprise, I haven't heard a peep from him since with any problems. Just to make matters worse, he refused to pay me 4 out the 5 times because he believed that he was doing nothing wrong. Still contemplating whether I should just fry the thing next time he calls me, or just slash his tyres now to vent.
Anyway, that's enough rambling from me. You have a good day or two, you hear?
RM |
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| It still hates me (sort of) |
[Sep. 20th, 2004|07:03 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | cranky | ] |
Not much for today, but I swear that the world is conspiring against me.
For those of you who don't know, Yooralla is an orginzation that helps people with all sorts of disabilities. It can range from simple depression (though it's never that simple) to full on geriatric care. And the range is ENORMOUS!
Anyway, the company we contract to sent us out to this nursing home run by Yooralla for the fifth or sixth time in the last 6 weeks. The first time wasn't too bad, mainly because they didn't have residents yet as it was being rebuilt. But it's gotten progressively worse from there. Expecially the last couple of times.
Have you ever smelled a dirty nappy that's been lying in the sun for too long? If so, then multiply that by 10 or 15 times, and you have the smell that we had to deal with in the area we were working in.  Suit_Dude's experience over the weekend would be on a par with this. As a result, I currently have an extremely poor sense of smell from rubbing my olfactory nerves so hard to try and block some it.
Luckily, this time, it was only for about 30 minutes, but the damage has been done. Get out of there, and an hour later, I smelled something rank. I originally thought my boss had farted and was about to go off at him. One quick double check later, my fucking clothes had absorbed this smell that even satan himself would run from!
The rest of the day wasn't too bad, and mostly relaxed, thank god!
Anyway, now I have to wash these clothes a few times to try and get rid of this smell, and if that doesn't do anything, I'm going to have to throw them out. Which really pisses me off as I wore my favourite shirt today.
And so ends another day in the life of a locksmith. |
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| It's official, the world hates me! |
[Sep. 18th, 2004|10:25 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | annoyed | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Enigma - Principles Of Lust | ] |
Hi and welcome!
First, a little about me. I'm a guy. I'm a young guy. I'm a young guy who is a locksmith. I am a young guy who is a locksmith that hates his fucking job!
I'll explain... All fucking week I have been dealing with tards. That's right, tards! It starts as a normal job for a mob called DHS, who operate specialised housing for mentally challenged people. But it's not what you think! Those so-called mentally challenged people seem to be more intelligent than the fucking workers! They at least know what they want. These workers should be the residents and the residents the workers. That's how fucked up they are.
First, we (my boss and I) get there, knock on the door. They open it up and seem normal. All seems fine as we tell them who we are and show ID if needed. We then go through the work order we've received and they say all fine. Sounds normal so far, doesn't it? We work out if they need a special keying system or not. Just so happens, this one did. An addition to that, is that we had to install 22 new locks that install like a buttplug. So bloody tight and exact angle, that if it goes in wrong, it's going to cause a lot of fucking pain!
Let the fun commence!!
We work out that they will need two levels of keys, one for them to open the whole house and seperate keys for each bedroom for the residents that will also open two external doors. We present it to them and they say that's OK. Start working on changing everything over, get half-way through, and they then decide that they want to have a third level that will open everything but the office.
AAARRRGGGHHHH!!!!! Two hours work wasted!
So we get this third level inserted, and keep going with the rest. We manage to get the locks installed, and they work as they should for the most part.
Now comes the really fun part.
We take apart the security door locks to change the keys, put them back together, and the fuckers are like a dole bludger. They just don't want to work (and just the same as a dole-bludger, those were cheap locks). Takes near on an extra day just to do these security doors, but we get them done. Finally, the job is done. They thank us and we leave secure in the knowledge that someone is going to fuck up somewhere worse than a man-whore on the bottom. I am awaiting that call like a leper waits for his lip to drop off.
So, welcome to my daily life. |
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