Tag Archives: office

Hell of a thing, killin’ a man.

I went out with the gunslingers last night, an act of lunacy I’d sworn never to repeat. I guess you’d call it a peacekeeping mission; but instead of an MK47, I was armed with moxy and a clean pair of shorts (to be said like Ace Ventura).

We’ve settled into a quiet unease of late, the sun threatening to set on our two-bit Western. I see the squint of their Clint … hands suspended over holsters. They sniff the air and know, my loyalty lies else(where). This town aint big enough for the trio of us.

Hence drinks, in mask of my mutiny. We sat around the table: Married Guy (a tale for another day), Gal Gunslinger, Guy Gunslinger and me. Chump. I cracked funnies, they laughed. But nothing reached the eyes. A poker game, with me as the dogeared Joker.

There would be no green fairies tonight, my foes.

It’s funny how much can change when nothing external alters. Like Justin once wanted Britney, they’d once wanted me. Those fuckers had pursued me like a granny pursues the elastic of her shorts as they drop beyond her knees (event horizon). Actually. Guy Gun chased, while Gal Gun looked upon me like Paul upon yechy Yoko (yo).

He won out, and she began to shine with the same maniacal glow (didn’t have much choice, see). They showed me theirs, I showed them my peppy and friendship rainbows arced the sky. Gal Gun swore my secrets went into The Vault, never to be shared with another living soul; all-the-while regaling me with the intimate details of Married Guy’s divorce.

Whaddayaknow, that girl was soon leaking like Paltrow in an Oscar speech, and vault items began appearing in the Gunslinger Gazette. Meanwhile, Guy Gun slowly turned from soft-spoken geek to an orgy-owning Ozzy with poison whippet-tail.

Like a former-CIA agent who’d made a living off the frailty of the human psyche, I had of course known this day would come. From the moment I’d clocked these Charlies, jaunting like a couple of prize fighters who’d never taken a dive (fists raised – jab, uppercut, jab).

“We are Rocky. You, Lundgren waiting to happen.”

And as I made my way home, walking like Frankenstein with a wedgie, I knew they’d caught it. Oh yeah baby. While I was bent over, takin’ it up the tailpipe, they caught the Whiff on the Wind. I wasn’t with them. And if I wasn’t with ’em …

I then spent ten minutes searching for my keys, only to realize they were in my left hand.

I’m gonna punch you in the ovary.

My god-awful job continues, where I sit in a catatonic state and occasionally mix it up with drool marching down my chin. I never quite manage to tune out cult boy (who drives me Kurt Cobain with his fucking Flanders grin) and the gunslingers continue to fixate on me as if I’m in a teen movie (about to get a totally awesome makeover).

And now … the addition of a new character to my sad little show – a cute, single and yes! Hetero retero man. Like spotting Elvis or Ally Sheedy, ’tis indeed a coup.

The first time I met him, I thought he was gay; mainly due to his randy handsomeness and the fact he calls everyone darling. So I gave him few further thought, except to notice whenever he set up camp (pardon the pun) nearby. ‘Twas indeed a faulty gaydar reading but it’s my theory that a man calls a woman darling when he’s booby bound in the singular (single woman, not boob), not in the plural. Call me crazy.

Then, one day, he flashed his pearly whites in a drive-by flirting. They dazzled like the teeth of Disney’s Prince Charming (bing!) and my metaphoric head whipped back so quick, I was wearing a metaphoric neck brace for a metafucken week. A crush was born.

Well. As much as a crush can be born to a cynical and wily old coot like me. After all, these days a prince translates to a tiny diva in a high quaff, heels and ruffled shirt (Formerly Known As). Then there’s the Non-Committal Prince, For-One-Night-Only Prince (aka Vegas Prince) and the I-make-you-swoon-with-my-eyelashes-but-it-turns-out-I’m-happily-married Prince.

In any case, my Gay Prince had arrived and was willing to overlook the boobies. Result.

But. Being wily, this created immediate suspicion. Why was he smiling at me when we hadn’t officially met? And, once met, why was he laughing heartily at a joke weaker than Lindsay Lohan at a Shakespeare audition? (Doesn’t happen often, but that’s a good example). I love audience recognition as much as the next office comedo, but my joke was lame (to be said like Ron Burgundy) and he was doubled over with a rabid case of IBS.

And here is where I leave you hangin’, dear Wuccan. Just as Gay Prince has left me hanging, in the sporadic and flaky flirting he has become known for. Ah yes! Like a dodgy radio signal, he comes in and out with the promise of guest spots and prize giveaways.

But alas, (so far) I got nuthin. Nada. Zippo the Hippo.

Dare I ask you to. watch. this. space?

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.

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).

Hitman versus ninja … Round One.

I suppose the office ninja must adapt to its environs. Not much good being ‘silent but deadly’ if you need to attend meetings and present financial reports.

Cut to: boardroom, morning, somewhere in Australia. Office stiffs populate a large table, sitting upright in their ties and specs, Mont Blancs at the ready. In the corner, a ninja. Perched in Spiderman squat, complete with black garb, mask and Samurai.

Could be a touch conspicuous, wot.

This logic notwithstanding, I nearly keel over when I rock up to my regular Monday meeting to find my nefarious foe in attendance. She was the first to arrive (dammit) and sat at the head of the expansive table … figuratively stroking her fluffy, white pussy.

Not a euphemism you perv, just a Bond reference.

The meeting commences without further a nemesis – ninja at one end, hitman at the other. As nature intended. We slowly begin to circle the table in a dance as old as time (aka deathly-dull business updates). She sits, eyeing each person as they speak their turn. Though her gaze lingers on me, my poise remains aplomb. I sip my metaphorical martini.

The room seems to rotate towards her as it comes time for the ninja to speak. I’m ready for her to mime, coolly of course; to use sign language, or simply incline her head ever so slightly. I’m certain she will keep her ground and me guessing …

“Ath you can thee … we thythematically threamlined the thythems to create greater effithenthies”.

Exsqueeze me, baking powder? Mouth, open. Chin, floor. Ninja … lisp?

Look, I aint casting aspersions on those fine folk who occasionally thruggle with the letter s. But in the first Reveal of the nemesis ninja, it’s fair to say that I was unprepared.

This double take is soon followed by an extended foetal when, ten minutes later, my ears are bleeding from a neverending barrage of words flying from her nimble ninja tongue. She hurtles them towards my hitman head, like artfully aimed throwing stars. I barely get out of the way before a reporting deadline whooshes by me, taking out the guy next to me.

Sorry, pal. It’s you or me. I aint goin’ down like that.

I return with gunfire, my trusty sidearm raised instinctively … criteria, BAM! statistics, POW! project guidelines, SHAZAM! The Batman bubbles loiter for a moment, before fading away. She falters but parries well, pulling out a pair of … uh oh. Nunchucks. She gets me with two, sharp taps upside the head and I go down like Monica Lewinsky. We’re talking a month of work, at least. I’m up to my eyeballs in it. I check the chamber, but I’m out. Damn.

My first mistake had been the one that had cost me the most. Always know your opponent. Eliminate the element of surprise, or it could eliminate you. As a seasoned hitman, I had known this was paramount to my survival. She’d taken me out like a rookie on my first day.

I tip my imaginary hat, albeit resentfully. Well done, old bean. To you go the spoils. But you will not find the victory quite so glorious when next we meet … oh no, you shall not.

Stay tuned for … Hitman versus Ninja: Round Two.

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