Friday 27th November (AKA All Americans Are Lazy Work Shy Bastards)

ecchi · 2015-11-27, 02:55 PM

According to AEBN today is still Thanksgiving - And you all took two days off this year.

Presumably that is why there is no "Thread Of The Day Today" - You are all still partying and eating dead turkey (except Cleo who is probably partying and eating dead nut loaf).

Well I say "Put down the dead turkey and get back to work."

I didn't get where I am today by partying and eating dead turkey*

Honestly, don't know what America is coming to. Used to be a great nation of hard working heroes, not a nation of "two day holiday" layabouts!

(Ecchi goes off muttering very unAmerican thoughts......)

*The "I Didn't get where I am today..." line comes from one of the best novels ever written - "The Death Of Reginald Perrin" (later retitled "The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin"). If you ever get a chance, read it, it is brilliant. It has been adapted for TV three times, the first (staring Leonard Rossiter) was brilliant too, the other two were rubbish, and an insult to the book.

ecchi · 2015-11-27, 03:38 PM

Sorry, on that Reginald Perrin quote. Here is what American Amazon customers say about it:

Quote:

The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin is the funniest book I have read in a long time. After getting used to the British slang and unusual mood of the book, I was hooked.
It takes a while to realize what is going on, and when you do - that is when the situations are funny.
The humor is slight and you have to pay attention to get the jokes; especially the insults he gives to his family and co-workers.

Quote:

Like the series of the same name, this is truly a gem! Read it, or watch it, I did both and do every few years. Funny, witty, sad, and wonderful.

Quote:

I find Reggie's life to be hauntingly familiar. The humor can be very subtle at times and some people may not get it. I didn't get where I am today without knowing that this is one of the funniest books I've ever read.

The following are NOT affiliate coded links, I don't use Amazon as an affiliate anymore, they are my genuine recommendations:

The first book: http://www.amazon.com/Fall-Rise-Regi...eginald+Perrin

TV show, first season: http://www.amazon.com/Fall-Rise-Regi...eginald+Perrin

TV show, second season: http://www.amazon.com/Fall-Rise-Regi...eginald+Perrin

TV show, third season: http://www.amazon.com/Fall-Rise-Regi...eginald+Perrin

If you get the DVDs from other sources, make sure you get the ones staring Leonard Rossiter. Do NOT get the version staring Martin Clunes, it is crap, and definitely don't get the version staring the guy who played Burt in Soap, that is even worse.

ecchi · 2015-11-27, 04:10 PM

When Reginald Iolanthe Perrin set out for work on the Thursday morning, he had no intention of calling his mother-in-law a hippopotamus.

Nothing could have been further from his thoughts.

He stood on the porch of his white neo-Georgian house and kissed his wife Elizabeth. She removed a piece of white cotton that had adhered to his jacket and handed him his black leather briefcase. It was engraved with his initials, ‘R.I.P.’, in gold.

‘Your zip’s coming undone,’ she hissed, although there was nobody around to overhear her.

‘No point in it coming undone these days,’ he said, as he made the necessary adjustment.

‘Stop worrying about it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s this heatwave, that’s all.’

She watched him as he set off down the garden path. He was a big man, almost six foot, with round shoulders and splay feet. He had a very hairy body and at school they had called him ‘Coconut Matting’. He walked with a lope, body sloping forward in its anxiety not to miss the eight-sixteen. He was forty-six years old.

Swifts were chasing each other high up in the blue June sky. Rover 2000s were sliding smoothly down the drives of mock Tudor and mock Georgian houses, and there were white gates across the roads on all the entrances to the estate.

Reggie walked down Coleridge Close, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road. He had a thundery headache coming on, and his legs felt unusually heavy.

He stood at his usual place on the platform, in front of the door marked ‘Isolation Telephone’. Peter Cartwright joined him. A West Indian porter was tidying the borders of the station garden.

The pollen count was high, and Peter Cartwright had a violent fit of sneezing. He couldn’t find a handkerchief, so he went round the corner of the ‘gents’, by the fire buckets, and blew his nose on the Guardian’s special Rhodesian supplement. He crumpled it up and put it in a green waste-paper basket.

‘Sorry,’ he said, rejoining Reggie. ‘Ursula forgot my tissues.’

Reggie lent him his handkerchief. The eight-sixteen drew in five minutes late. Reggie stepped back as it approached for fear that he’d throw himself under the train. They managed to get seats. The rolling stock was nearing the end of its active life and Reggie was sitting over a wheel. The shaking caused his socks to fall down over his ankles, and it was hard to fill in the crossword legibly.

Shortly before Surbiton Peter Cartwright had another sneezing fit. He blew his nose on Reggie’s handkerchief. It had ‘R.I.P.’ initialled on it.

‘Finished,’ said Peter Cartwright, pencilling in the last clue as they rattled through Raynes Park.

‘I’m stuck on the top left-hand corner,’ said Reggie. ‘I just don’t know any Bolivian poets.’

The train arrived at Waterloo eleven minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement said that this was due to ‘staff difficulties at Hampton Wick’.

The head office of Sunshine Desserts was a shapeless, five-storey block on the South Bank, between the railway line and the river. The concrete was badly stained by grime and rain. The clock above the main entrance had been stuck at three forty-six since 1967, and every thirty seconds throughout the night a neon sign flashed its red message ‘Sunshin Des erts’ across the river.

As Reggie walked towards the glass doors, a cold shiver ran through him. In the foyer there were drooping rubber plants and frayed black leather seats. He gave the bored receptionist a smile.

The lift was out of order again, and he walked up three flights of stairs to his office. He slipped and almost fell on the second floor landing. He always had been clumsy. At school they had called him ‘Goofy’ when they weren’t calling him ‘Coconut Matting’.

He walked across the threadbare green carpet of the open-plan third floor office, past the secretaries seated at their desks.

His office had windows on two sides, affording a wide vista over blackened warehouses and railway arches. Along the other two walls were green filing cabinets. A board had been pegged to the partition beside the door, and it was covered with notices, holiday postcards, and a calendar supplied gratis by a Chinese Restaurant in Weybridge.

He summoned Joan Greengross, his loyal secretary. She had a slender body and a big bust, and the knobbles of her knees went white when she crossed her legs. She had worked for him for eight years – and he had never kissed her. Each summer she sent him a postcard from Shanklin (IOW). Each summer he sent her a postcard from Pembrokeshire.

‘How are we this morning, Joan?’ he said.

‘Fine.’

‘Good. That’s a nice dress. Is it new?’

‘I’ve had it three years.’

‘Oh.’

He rearranged some papers on his desk nervously.

‘Right,’ he said. Joan’s pencil was poised over her pad. ‘Right.’
He looked out over the grimy sun-drenched street. He couldn’t bring himself to begin. He hadn’t the energy to launch himself into it.

‘To G.F. Maynard, Randalls Farm, Nether Somerby,’ he began at last, thinking of another farm, of golden harvests, of his youth.

‘Thank you for your letter of the 7th inst. I am very sorry that you are finding it inconvenient to change over to the Metzinger scale. Let me assure you that many of our suppliers are already finding that the new scale is the most realistic method of grading plums and greengages. With the coming . . . no, with the advent of metrication I feel confident that you will have no regrets in the long run . . .’

He finished the letter, dictated several other letters of even greater boredom, and still gave no thought to the possibility of calling his mother-in-law a hippopotamus.

Cleo · 2015-11-27, 05:51 PM

Not dead and not still partying but a bit overwhelmed at getting back to the grind.

Did Foxy's updates this morning and then when to the gym. Still have to finish cleaning the mess from yesterday but may wait until tomorrow and go over the local pub instead.

Greenguy · 2015-11-28, 09:57 AM

I'm not reading all this...

ecchi · 2015-11-30, 01:07 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Greenguy

I'm not reading all this...

Your Loss!

2015-11-27, 02:55 PM	#1
ecchi Banned Join Date: Oct 2003 Location: About to be evicted!!!! Posts: 4,082	Friday 27th November (AKA All Americans Are Lazy Work Shy Bastards) According to AEBN today is still Thanksgiving - And you all took two days off this year. Presumably that is why there is no "Thread Of The Day Today" - You are all still partying and eating dead turkey (except Cleo who is probably partying and eating dead nut loaf). Well I say "Put down the dead turkey and get back to work." I didn't get where I am today by partying and eating dead turkey* Honestly, don't know what America is coming to. Used to be a great nation of hard working heroes, not a nation of "two day holiday" layabouts! (Ecchi goes off muttering very unAmerican thoughts......) *The "I Didn't get where I am today..." line comes from one of the best novels ever written - "The Death Of Reginald Perrin" (later retitled "The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin"). If you ever get a chance, read it, it is brilliant. It has been adapted for TV three times, the first (staring Leonard Rossiter) was brilliant too, the other two were rubbish, and an insult to the book.

2015-11-27, 04:10 PM	#3
ecchi Banned Join Date: Oct 2003 Location: About to be evicted!!!! Posts: 4,082	The Start Of the First Chapter When Reginald Iolanthe Perrin set out for work on the Thursday morning, he had no intention of calling his mother-in-law a hippopotamus. Nothing could have been further from his thoughts. He stood on the porch of his white neo-Georgian house and kissed his wife Elizabeth. She removed a piece of white cotton that had adhered to his jacket and handed him his black leather briefcase. It was engraved with his initials, ‘R.I.P.’, in gold. ‘Your zip’s coming undone,’ she hissed, although there was nobody around to overhear her. ‘No point in it coming undone these days,’ he said, as he made the necessary adjustment. ‘Stop worrying about it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s this heatwave, that’s all.’ She watched him as he set off down the garden path. He was a big man, almost six foot, with round shoulders and splay feet. He had a very hairy body and at school they had called him ‘Coconut Matting’. He walked with a lope, body sloping forward in its anxiety not to miss the eight-sixteen. He was forty-six years old. Swifts were chasing each other high up in the blue June sky. Rover 2000s were sliding smoothly down the drives of mock Tudor and mock Georgian houses, and there were white gates across the roads on all the entrances to the estate. Reggie walked down Coleridge Close, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road. He had a thundery headache coming on, and his legs felt unusually heavy. He stood at his usual place on the platform, in front of the door marked ‘Isolation Telephone’. Peter Cartwright joined him. A West Indian porter was tidying the borders of the station garden. The pollen count was high, and Peter Cartwright had a violent fit of sneezing. He couldn’t find a handkerchief, so he went round the corner of the ‘gents’, by the fire buckets, and blew his nose on the Guardian’s special Rhodesian supplement. He crumpled it up and put it in a green waste-paper basket. ‘Sorry,’ he said, rejoining Reggie. ‘Ursula forgot my tissues.’ Reggie lent him his handkerchief. The eight-sixteen drew in five minutes late. Reggie stepped back as it approached for fear that he’d throw himself under the train. They managed to get seats. The rolling stock was nearing the end of its active life and Reggie was sitting over a wheel. The shaking caused his socks to fall down over his ankles, and it was hard to fill in the crossword legibly. Shortly before Surbiton Peter Cartwright had another sneezing fit. He blew his nose on Reggie’s handkerchief. It had ‘R.I.P.’ initialled on it. ‘Finished,’ said Peter Cartwright, pencilling in the last clue as they rattled through Raynes Park. ‘I’m stuck on the top left-hand corner,’ said Reggie. ‘I just don’t know any Bolivian poets.’ The train arrived at Waterloo eleven minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement said that this was due to ‘staff difficulties at Hampton Wick’. The head office of Sunshine Desserts was a shapeless, five-storey block on the South Bank, between the railway line and the river. The concrete was badly stained by grime and rain. The clock above the main entrance had been stuck at three forty-six since 1967, and every thirty seconds throughout the night a neon sign flashed its red message ‘Sunshin Des erts’ across the river. As Reggie walked towards the glass doors, a cold shiver ran through him. In the foyer there were drooping rubber plants and frayed black leather seats. He gave the bored receptionist a smile. The lift was out of order again, and he walked up three flights of stairs to his office. He slipped and almost fell on the second floor landing. He always had been clumsy. At school they had called him ‘Goofy’ when they weren’t calling him ‘Coconut Matting’. He walked across the threadbare green carpet of the open-plan third floor office, past the secretaries seated at their desks. His office had windows on two sides, affording a wide vista over blackened warehouses and railway arches. Along the other two walls were green filing cabinets. A board had been pegged to the partition beside the door, and it was covered with notices, holiday postcards, and a calendar supplied gratis by a Chinese Restaurant in Weybridge. He summoned Joan Greengross, his loyal secretary. She had a slender body and a big bust, and the knobbles of her knees went white when she crossed her legs. She had worked for him for eight years – and he had never kissed her. Each summer she sent him a postcard from Shanklin (IOW). Each summer he sent her a postcard from Pembrokeshire. ‘How are we this morning, Joan?’ he said. ‘Fine.’ ‘Good. That’s a nice dress. Is it new?’ ‘I’ve had it three years.’ ‘Oh.’ He rearranged some papers on his desk nervously. ‘Right,’ he said. Joan’s pencil was poised over her pad. ‘Right.’ He looked out over the grimy sun-drenched street. He couldn’t bring himself to begin. He hadn’t the energy to launch himself into it. ‘To G.F. Maynard, Randalls Farm, Nether Somerby,’ he began at last, thinking of another farm, of golden harvests, of his youth. ‘Thank you for your letter of the 7th inst. I am very sorry that you are finding it inconvenient to change over to the Metzinger scale. Let me assure you that many of our suppliers are already finding that the new scale is the most realistic method of grading plums and greengages. With the coming . . . no, with the advent of metrication I feel confident that you will have no regrets in the long run . . .’ He finished the letter, dictated several other letters of even greater boredom, and still gave no thought to the possibility of calling his mother-in-law a hippopotamus.

2015-11-27, 05:51 PM	#4
Cleo Subversive filth of the hedonistic decadent West Join Date: Mar 2003 Location: Southeast Florida Posts: 27,936	Not dead and not still partying but a bit overwhelmed at getting back to the grind. Did Foxy's updates this morning and then when to the gym. Still have to finish cleaning the mess from yesterday but may wait until tomorrow and go over the local pub instead. __________________ Free Rides on Uber and Lyft Uber Car: uberTzTerri Lyft Car: TZ896289

2015-11-28, 09:57 AM	#5
Greenguy The Original Greenguy (Est'd 1996) & AVN HOF Member - I Crop Pics For Thumbs In My Sleep Join Date: Feb 2003 Location: Blasdell, NY (shithole suburb south of Buffalo) Posts: 41,791	I'm not reading all this... __________________ Promote POV Porn Cash By Building & Submitting Galleries to the Porn Luv Network