Throw me a frikkin bone here.

The dude who sits next to me at work burns my toast, I might’ve mentioned.

It’s not just that he dresses like a Corky or watches me like a puppy waiting to be let out so he doesn’t crap on the carpet. It’s a little that and a little this: where other people have dysfunction (yeah, me) (and don’t kid yourself, you too), he has beige non-offensive answers to every goddamn thing (which quite frankly, offends me). If he has to ask a hard hitting question, he’ll phrase the first three words and then leave silence hanging in the air like a malformed speech bubble, prompting you to utter the words to your own demise. Drop some avocado pips in your pit whydon’tyou, so we can both pretend you have a pair.

The sound of him eating lunch is akin to the lapping of Fat Bastard’s saliva glands as he eyes a baby. He sits next to me, whispering to himself or humming disjointedly as he makes long, scribbled lists. I hate his sounds as if we’ve been married for thirty fucking years. Every fucking hum, every fucking slurp makes me want to shoot him in the nipple with a BB gun so many times, it makes him look like he has a lopsided man boob.

Maybe I irritate him just as much and every time I apply lipstick, smacking my lips to make sure it’s even, his sphincter recoils into his body and the acid builds in his stomach like the tidal wave in Deep Impact.

But what it really comes down to is his cult leader tendencies and creepy I-will-make-you-love-me-even-if-I-have-to-tie-you-to-a-chair-and-forcefeed-you-rainbows smile. He attended a men’s conference last weekend. I mean, honestly! (To be said in an English accent.) I don’t know what in heckfire that is, except that it involved 200 men, chanting and most likely, a bulk purchase of moo-fucken-moos.

Any further knowledge would need the sort of classification that ushers in a movie – Rated MM (moo moo); recommended for viewers with mental longitude and a lack of underwear.

He calls everyone “my man” and starts conversations like this:

“How are you, are you happy in your job?” Nice conversational whiplash, Charlie.

“Huh?” Like an old man being woken from a nap.

“What is it you want to do?”

“Uh …” Be left alone? “what do you mean?”

“In life, what is it you want most?”

“To be jaunty, like a bumble bee with an expensive toupee and a bottle of Chianti.” To lock you in a box with a looped tape of Titanic and bottle of laxatives.

“Sometimes I think, what does God have planned for me?” Insert sidewinder about life and obligations here.

Too harsh? Learn to deal, that’s how I roll. I figure it’s a fair trade, given that he makes me want to stab my eyeball with a prison shiv forged with a plastic fork and cigarette lighter.

About 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.

24 Responses to “Throw me a frikkin bone here.”

  1. Sounds like an asshat I used to work with. He asked the woman in the desk across from him to scratch his back one day. Shudder. And wanted to know (we were getting books ready to go to libraries) if he could put fiction stickers on the evolution titles while exuding Religious Righteousness.

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