Tag Archives: Clark Kent

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).

What’s with the frikkin tie, man?

There’s a dude at work who looks like Clark Kent… if Kent were a European office stiff of insurance proportions, sans baby curl. Euro Kent is six feet, square-jawed, with hair that emulates a dark, wavy sea. He’s as noteworthy as a blank sheet of paper. The spy in movies who becomes the ultimate jackal, because he looks like everyone and no-one at all. Two seconds after you’ve passed him, you’ve already forgotten him.

“I was never here”.

But Euro Kent aint no jackal, because I’m Jason Bourne. I’ve got him in my sights and this spy is going down. Yeah, you can ask. Why am I taking Euro down to Chinatown? Because he burns my toast, that’s why. To blackened, crusty charcoal. Actually, it’s his tie. Every day… as Britney Spears is my witness, it’s over his left shoulder. Sitting there like friggin Jiminy Cricket.

All. the. fucking. time.

Week one, it’s kind of amusing. Cue chuckle, isn’t that hilare? Euro Kent looks like he’s been running faster than a speeding bullet! Mi buen amigo, Speedy Gonzales – slanted into the wind, tie over his shoulder, his legs a blur of circles, “Arriba! Arriba!”

Week two, it’s getting a little old. What’s with the tie, man? Sitting at your desk, tie over shoulder. Going to the printer, tie over shoulder. Reciting the Gettysburg Address, tie over goddamn shoulder. For the love! You look like a chump. Let the bloody thing abandon ship already, let’s get this over with.

Week three. Okay, I’m pissed. What’s with the fucking tie, man? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. This calls for an intervention. Not one of those gentle “this is a safe place” kind of interventions, where your loved ones gather round with melted Prozac expressions. Oh no, more like an “I’m an alien who’s gonna burst outta your chest and annihilate the Nostromo” kind of intervention … where I take that goddamn, motherlovin’ tie and I ….

Okay, keep it PG, people. It’s gonna be okay, alright? It’s just a tie.

Everybody calm down…. it’s just a tie.

Cleansing sigh. It’s just a tie.

Cut to me in a padded cell, rocking back and forth in the foetal, muttering softly,

“the tie … the tie … oh God why, the tie…”.

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