At 01:01 PM 1/1/01 -0800, K'thardin wrote:
>^_^x Kenshin-dono wrote:
>
>> >Happy new millennium!!!  ^_^
>> >
>> >--
>> >"Pika.  Pika." -Yu
>> 
>> happy new year to you too mrs. bane of my existence ^_^x
>
>Ah look!  They're flurting!  C'mon you too!  Kiss and make up. ^_^
>
>K'thardin
>"Ok...OK...I got it.  Oop.  Sorry, lost it again."
>	-Tyler Durden

*goes upstairs and rifles through his blades, looking for the sharpest one
to castrate K'thardin and feed him his own bloody mangled testicles while
repeatedly punching him in the throat*

^_^x KD
My boss, with his extra-starched shirts and standing appointment for a
haircut every Tuesday after luch, he looks at me, and he says: 

"I hope this isn't yours." 

What about it? What do I think, he asks, what should he do with an employee
who spends companyt time in some little fantasy world.  If I was in his
shoes, what would I do? 

What would I do, I say, is I'd be very careful who I talked to about this
paper. 

I say, it sounds like some dangerous psychotic killer wrote this, and this
buttoned-down schizophrenic could probably go over the edge at any moment
of the working day and stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-180
carbine gas-operated semiautomatic. 

My boss just looks at me. 

The guy, I say, is probably at home every night with a little rattail file,
filing a little cross into the tip of every one of his rounds.  This way,
when he shows up for work one morning and pumps a round into his whining,
ineffectual, petty, nagging, candy-ass boss, the one round will split along
the filed grooves and spread open the way a dumdum bullet flowers inside
you to blow a bushel load of your stinking guts out through your spine. 

My boss takes the paper out from under my nose. 

Go ahead, I say, read some more. 

No, really, I say, it sounds fascinating.  The work of a totally diseased
mind. 

My boss just looks at me. 

Maybe, I say, this totally diseased fuck would use an Eagle Apache carbine
because an Apache takes a thirty-shot mag and only weighs nine pounds,..
With thirty shots, our totally fucked-up hero could go the length of the
mahogany row and take out every vice-president with a cartridge left over
for each director. 

Tyler's words coming out of my mouth.  And I used to be such a nice person. 

I just look at my boss.  My boss has blue, blue, pale cornflower blue eyes. 

My boss just looks at me. 

It's scary, I say.  This is probably somebody he's known for years.
Probably this guy knows all about him, where he lives, and where his wife
works and where his kids go to school -Fight Club