I Work for Techtard

Sometimes I can't believe I work for this woman.

I've entertained you before with tales of Techtard, affectionately known as my boss. She is, by all means, a TECHTARD. I haven't told a good Techtard story in a while and she lavished me with a doozie yesterday and I must share the wealth.


(for another great tale from Techtard, visit Guac Rocks!)

First and foremost, Techtard and I are a couple of sick freaks. We can hold our own with the guys, hands down. Nothing is too gross or off-limits for us. You name it, we've probably done it. Sick. Simply sick.

So the other night, Techtard is working late running some print jobs for an upcoming dinner we've got going on. She is struck with the sudden urge, to put it mildly, expel number two from her lower region. After clenching her ass and shuffling to the restroom, she takes care of business and returns to the office.

As she's fluttering about from her desk to the printer, she keeps feeling something wet on the back of her legs. Shocked, she wonders to herself if she by chance didn't do a stellar job in "cleaning up after the aforementioned removal of waste products." Since it's now dark out and she's afraid of someone seeing in her windows, she proceeds to go out into our soft seating area to remove her pants and do an "inspection" of her nether region.

She had managed to tuck a rather long wet piece of toilet paper into the back of her pants, allowing it to dangle around the backs of her knees, while passing a professor waiting to get on the elevator, whom she is sure saw her lovely surprise.

Let me say this again. I work for this woman.