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Well, wuc me gently with a chainsaw.

So. This week’s been fairly Oliver Stone, I don’t mind sayin’.

Or, as the kindly black man says to the portly, ultimately acquiescent Kellerman at the close of Dirty Dancing: lots of changes, old Max. Lots of changes.

First, I had drinks with the gunslingers.

I know, right. I have no godly excuse for such a brain fart. I don’t know why they wanted me, or why I agreed to go. I’d like to call it survival tactics, but that’s like saying Twilight is an existential look at man’s need to live forever. That dog don’t tap dance. It was like sitting across from two sharks, beers nestled in fin, contesting my juicy jugular. E pluribus unum.

At worst, it was strangely inspiring; like attending a high-school reunion where you hated all you schooled with, but to which you’re oddly drawn in curiosity and self-loathing. Like all reunions, then. Twas indeed glorious to hear Cult Boy failing in a job where he’s incompetent in perpetuum (aka routinely-reamed by Schwarzenegger, like Shriver on a Saturday night).

Second, I had coffee with Gay Prince.

I know, right. But, while he’d left our place of work (dropping from view like the boobs of Whoopi Goldberg), he’d also left me with more possibility in the air than bubbles from a drunken hiccup. He’d been building towards something, a kin to crescendo; and the demise of one routine left an opening for another (if you get my Tokyo drift). Probable, even.

This coffee, like all coffee, was the crux. Where our sentimental soufflé would rise to Tim Robbins’ heights, or collapse like Elijah Wood’s career in the early hours of adolescent morn.

And so. Like Indiana entering the Temple de Doom, I ventured forth in hope and inquisition – armed with nouse, nerve and my proverbial Short Round. Further and further into the belly of the romantic beast … to come vis-à-vis with the manicured hand that held the answer. The same hand which once high-fived me in comedic and questionable union. That had stroked my arms and ego. The same hand that led me here, in conspiracy and adventure.

The hand that now … reached into my ample chest and ripped out its pumping heart, before holding it maniacally aloft and tossing me into the fiery depths of singledom.

Not to be dramatic or nothin.

As swift as any Taylor, I was sexually irrelevant. As if someone flipped my plot, mid movie. One minute, I was Sandra Bullock. The next, Meatloaf. In rocky, shocky horror.

Ah, screw it. Our landscape always was Seussian, so what did I expect?

What went before, was not to come. His attention fickle and my luck, dumb. So wave bye-bye and fuck it all to hell. My heart came near, but never truly fell.

What the wuc just happened?

I’m back.

Like a chump who shows up to her bat mitzvah at 32.

So. Um, how’ve you been? [Looks awkward and shuffles feet.] Good? You been good? Sweet Mary. The guilt I’ve felt for letting my wuc grow cobwebs! (Ewww.) We’re talking, Catholic guilt. Teenage pregnancy guilt. Hairy armpits guilt.

Guilt.

But I return to thee (laptop, Bareilles and figurative in hand) – the Lando Calrissian to your Han Solo. It’s good to see you, old friend. We shall live to fight another day! (And I will go on to star in such nuggets of goodness as Dynasty and Dangerous Passion) (good times).

I have much news (to be said like Xena the Warrior Princess) but no Zeusly idea where to begin. Like Atreyu, I battled the Nothing only to lose “Artaaaax!” in the Swamp of Sadness.

Uh huh.

I feel beholden to shoot to the crotch of the matter, like a spider seeking a damp and warm place to reside. But the tale of Gay Prince and Me is not a coherent one.

In short and much surprise – he took it to the next level (read: mezzanine with restricted access). Months of imitating dating. Hours and daze, attached at the hip. Twas bonny (albeit soggy with pseudo), and much like living in the belly of a hiccup.

“And she did dwell beside GP in glorium (aka her new office) for the time it took a ray of sunshine to be eclipsed by a painfully-punctual precipitation.” Beard of Zeus

Or, in the soluble words of Jane Austen … “exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week later, Gay Prince did cease employment, and became as absent to Wuc as she herself could not fucking desire”. (I paraphrase.)

Ergo. Tragically. We’ve missed our window to join hands, tuck penises and sing Kumbaya.

Instead, welcome to The Hangover. Where I puzzle together what went wuc (and come to terms with the proverbial Tyson sprawled across my face).

In the kindime (and absence of cognitive thought), allow me to depict my mental state:

Do that voodoo you do so well.

I feel happy today. Like a jelly bean after a lavish spa treatment. It aint a Disney day, understand. But my undies are nevertheless alive with the sound of Cusack.

The factors to my blissful briefs (aka the pantaloon union) are thus:

  • they’re clean
  • Gay Prince is in da hizzie (whoop whoop)
  • I’ve been offered a job

Yes, they’re always clean (I aint no motherlovin’ grundie miscreant) but it bears heralding. Yeah baby, GP is scrum I’d-like-to-diddle-his umptious and yielding a tropic Travolta vibe today (night diva, night diva). And I doompahdee might have a new job! I’m negotiating the salary much like Hugh Hefner negotiates stairs – hopefully yet with some trepidation.

So! Like a pimp, allow me to headline the pros: the new gig is with my current company, but at a different office. Which means a transition smoother than an exfoliated Clooney and (like Shriver upon the morn of meaning) fare-thee-well Schwarzenegger. Most importantly?

No more Cult Boy, no more kooks. No more gunslingers, dirty looks!

Boo-fucken-whoop-whoop-yar.

I’d still be working with the mental crew but from a distance (à la Better Midler) (with hula hands and a song in my heart). And. Four days a week. Motherfucken, and. In the same bedazzled building as, drrrumroll … that fabled fabio of hetero hotness, Gay Prince.

It’s as if George Michael finally heard my prayers. (Wham wucs.)

In pointiest of fact, I’d be working for his boss’s boss. Wuccadoodies. GP dropped by my desk today, paused for bing grin and inquired after my employment health. Then, upon learning this malodorous morsel, backed away slowly (like James Cagney at having a tommy gun pitched in his gut). Aww-kward (to be sung like my little brother) (macho falsetto, yo).

This could be considered a con. Also: no more Coffee Guy. But then, I suspect his lattes are hotter than he. And he looks weary of late. As if our imaginary courtship is taking its toll.

It’s Howdy Doody time.

And she’s back in the game!

(Gallops onto stage with mop and cowboy hat) (Bad Boy Bubby of the executive set). Howdy y’all (tip of the hat) and wassup mutherfuckers (to the roughians in the back).

Apols for the satellite delay. I’ve been in a cult boy / gunslinger meltdown from which it took a fortnight to recover (the time it takes for one to fly over the cuckoo’s nest). Their collective psychosis was like 20 tonnes of water pressure on the tiny cabin of my mind. Ipso rectum: totally stressin’ me out, yo (to be said like damsel in distress, hip-hop hand to forehead).

You may be wondering, what does an extended foetal look like? Well, Barry. It’s a cocktail of broken-down autistic robot, primo PMT and the Six Million Dollar Man at 2am. In short: the kind of wild ride only Pamela Anderson is trained for (she’s got airbags, Barry).

I was exiting my confounded cocoon this morn, when Cult Boy happily told me that the world will END in September. Like, total bummer man (to be said like Keanu token-the Reeves).

CB and his fantastical followers will be okay (whistle phew), but all others will be smidged. Smited. Would you believe, smote? New Yorkers are the first to go (holds clipboard and looks apologetic) and after that (looks to assistant, inquiringly), shall we go with a clockwise decimation?

Now, apart from the obvious concerns (should I delay my tax return to October?) (will I ever see Gay Prince in the nudey?) (for all of us, baby), there’s this nougat nugget: this is Chump in Charge of the 5 Year Strategic Plan for the business. (Can I get an x-men?)

In fact, he’s spent months diligently planning the budget, drafting a prescient pitch and is due to present to the Board in … anyone? Bueller? That’s right Barry: Sep-tem-ber.

He is the Walrus. Cuckoo ca choo.

I wish to make tutu of irony, to dance with drivel in the pale moonlight (to be said in Russian accent) because something tells me this aint covered in his weekly 1:1 meetings with Schwarzenegger. I’ve seen his Q4 objectives and “end of days” is conspicuously absent.

The festy de résistance is that, come the Morose Month, Hymey starts working part-time. What’s he gonna do with the spare time, you hesitantly hask? My money’s on crazy old-man undies, a sign declaring ‘THE END IS NIGH’ and a clanging bell to signify the Ark is boarding.

Damn the man. Save the Empire!

I feel weary. We’re talking, hiking up a pair of concrete undies with spindly Mr Burns arms, weary. Battle commander for the Alliance, stuck on a decimated planet ravaged by a decade of war, fighting for the mining rights to a source that’ll end the world’s energy crisis, weary.

You get the drill bit. Motherfucken weary, yo.

Such is the collected effect of working in an office eternally. Like anthracosis, except I inhale an abundance of bullshit instead of coal dust. Cue high-pitched Zoolander cough.

“I think I’m getting the black lung, Pop.”

This joint’s shrinking my life force like the head of Beetlejuice. And this being the day I resemble Peter Weller (my left cheekbone an ashtray for radioactive cigarettes and my right, a shelf for my alarm clock), who materializes like Jiminy-convivial-Cricket?

Like an old man sensing the coming rain via gift of gammy leg, I’ve become adept at predicting when Gay Prince will appear. The truth lies in the crotch of early morn, when I wrestle myself for ten minutes of extra sleep (the strife between a good and bad hair day). Sleep wins, ev-ery time. And, as sure as the dilapidated coif sitting atop my head (more defeated than any wife of Tom Cruise), the debonair dignitary will saunter through my door.

Right on cue, you mincing bastard.

I’m in no mood. Not when I have Cult Boy sitting next to me, singing under his breath and tapping his left foot like Daniel Dolt Lewis. Not when I have Schwarzenegger calling me to wipe his ass in Dubai, via the magic of go-go-Gadget arm. Not when the gunslingers are hovering over our dying friendship, like a couple of hyenas waiting to feed on its carcass.

Not today. Not on Rex Manning day.

I feel I must prepare you (or is it, me?) for the inevitable failure of the crippled rom-com that is The Gay Prince and Me. Like a father revealing the santa suit he keeps in the closet (alongside Oprah, Honest Republican and other fantastical creatures), I must now reveal that we may not be in a romantic comedy after all, dear friends. I fear he aint the Lange to my Tootsie roll, the Tango to my Cash, nor the Lucas to my Empire.

More like the Bergman to my Bogart (yes, that’s right. I’m Bogie, baby). At least then I can coolly exit: my collar up, Homburg tipped into the wind, my cigar miraculously alight.

“Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Not for any good reason, but because Warner Bros says so. Now get outta here, kid.”

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