Praise be to Schwarzenegger.

There’s a dude at work the spitting image of Jesus. A well-dressed son of a God who has wisely forgone the moo-moo and sandals for a pencil-thin suit.

He has glorious hair, an exultant beard, prays under six foot (no God should tower) and glides majestically from meeting to meeting. I often find Jesus at the printer or in the kitchen, making a heavenly cuppa. Sometimes, I hear angels singing softly in the background (but I’ve since discovered the office acapella group practice on the 12th floor).

Whenever I pass him by, I give him the nod.

“Jesus. Sup”.

If God decided to forgo causing natural disasters to instead insure them, it could well be him. Not that it’s wise to fuck with the big JC, but it does make me wanna test the theory; see if I can get a song stuck in his head via the gift of telepathy. (Rick Springfield?)

Coffee-with-a-fish-and-a-prayer also makes me ponder the cast of characters which make up the rest of my office (like a special needs convention of the new millennium).

My boss speaks like Arnold Schwarzenegger (if only he’d add Ray Bans and leather); and my brother urges me to surreptitiously make him say Arnie quotes in work meetings. (You try slipping “it’s not a tumour” or “hasta la vista” into every-day conversation.)

He does occasionally say he’ll be back, but … did I also mention he pronounces his Rs like Elmer Fudd? It ruins the illusion somewhat when he says, “I’ll be wight back”.

Then there’s Euro Clark Kent, whose tie is perpetually-perched over his left shoulder (like he runs faster than a speeding bullet); and old Mark Hamill who rides the elevator like an ageing Luke Skywalker in search of his father.

Someone has clearly poisoned the waterhole because, apart from a spawn of useless celebrity lookalikes, there are also clones of the average man. The dude across from me has an exact double working on the 5th floor – haircut, glasses, everything. Fucking freaky. But I guess it all goes toward my thinking that office pods are indeed full of pod people.

It’s just a matter of time before I become flourescent-bulbed version of Emily Blunt (by name and reputation).

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

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