Death By Bloody Mary

There are 2 types of people in this world; assholes and douche-nozzles. Assholes are just that. They walk through life trying to make everyone miserable because their drunk stepfather used to berate them about their lack of self-esteem whilst removing a broom handle from their nether regions. Basically making sure that you realize they will never amount to anything more than the top of the custodial arts career ladder. Douche-nozzles are a little different. They are basically the blank stare on the face of life. The things they do tend to confound anyone with an ounce of intelligence. They don’t necessarily mean to be rude, they just don’t possess the brain power to fathom complex situations like opening a can of soda or putting their underwear on their ass instead of their head.

As I am walking into the local deli (One which I don’t usually frequent) with a couple co-workers, I notice a somewhat intelligent girl behind the counter making the sandwiches. Thank God. So my compatriot orders his sandwich from her and like Warren Buffet making a deal, she makes him a money sandwich. Sweet, I’m next. Then, like the cold squirt from a frozen garden hose, I hear the voice of disappointment. Some guy is making my sandwich now. I order a BBQ Beef with pepper jack cheese. After a few minutes, Sir Nozzle informs me that there is no pepper jack. So I order provolone. All the while I am very polite as not to end up with a nose goblin or some of his genetics on my sandwich. Next up, would you like lettuce and tomato. I must take a detour off the highway here for a second. I HATE tomatoes! I would rather stick my face in a jar of moldy mayonnaise that has been in the sun for a week than eat tomatoes (And I hate mayo). I clearly state to this asshat that I didn’t want tomatoes. PERIOD.

Fast forward to my office; where I commence to complain about the lack of copious amounts of BBQ Beef on my sandwich. For seven bucks, I demand at least the bread be covered. No bare spots. This was not the case. Then I saw it. Something red peaking out from under the lettuce. No, No, NOOOO! What part of no tomatoes didn’t you understand? Was it the “No” or the “Tomatoes”? Maybe your stepdad beat the hearing out of you or the meth lab fumes killed off what was left of your brain. Either way, you will join “Bagel Boy” in hell when my wrath comes to fruition. Prepare to choke on 50 pounds of tomato stuffed in every orifice you have and a couple I will create.

The Mystery Pit

We are a race of habits. Every human has habits that we do all the time (Which is why they’re called habits). Lately I have developed a new one. Every night after work I change from my monkey suit into my cat suit and I take a good whiff of the work my armpits have done for the day. This is a good measure of how much work I have done. The weird thing is that my left armpit always stinks but my right smells like a mountain meadow of rose petals after a light rainfall. Why? Now every day I have to check the pits to make sure the status quo is met. I may have to start douching the left pit.

Sherlock Has Nothing on J-Ro

One of my most disdainful things in the corporate world is the company kitchen. First off, most offices don’t have a place to eat but they frown on you eating at your desk. Of course they also frown on you being gone for an hour whilst you gnaw on a crusty sandwich from the deli down the street. I, being the frugal guy I am, always bring in my lunch. Not so much because I am cheap but because I am too lazy to think of somewhere to go for lunch. Takes too much effort to round up the troops and actually agree on a place to go. Another habit I have is bringing something for breakfast. I get in way too early to have time to eat at home so I bring in the occasional bag of bagels or breakfast bar.

Thus brings the mystery of “Who ate my motherfucking bagels?”. When my lovely wife or I hit the grocery store, I always grab a bag of bagels. Preferably Lender’s pre-sliced plain bagels (Blueberry if I am feeling spunky). I take the whole bag to work and keep it in the fridge for the week. Being a normal, common sense type person, I assume I can trust people to not eat my food. And in the past that has always been the case. Then the unthinkable happens, someone ate 3 of my bagels in one day. I can understand an occasional grabbing of the wrong lunch but there were no other bagels in the fridge at the time. I proceeded to eat the last bagel and put a note on the empty bag saying “Thank you for eating my bagels, I was on a diet and didn’t need the extra calories” and put it back in the fridge. A couple hours later I notice the bag in the trash. Obviously Sir “Eat My Bagels” had read it and wanted to hide the evidence of his horrid crime. Like a mass murderer bleaching his house, this person wanted to bury the crime.

Fast forward to today. I don’t have my beloved bagels and thusly decide to eat an early lunch. When I get to the kitchen, a fellow employee is doing the same. This individual is, to say the least, skating on thin ice as far as his employment is concerned. He mentions he didn’t eat breakfast either and was starving. So we started talking about eating lunch out of vending machines and my college lunches that consisted of a box of Thin Mints. He then mentioned he once was starving in the morning and ate someone’s bagels out of the fridge. My ears pin back immediately and like the proverbial tea kettle, my blood begins to boil. However, I remain calm until he blurts out, “The person left me a mean note on the bag”. So I asked him how many he ate. He responded with “About three, I was starving.” I have yet to determine the end to this debauchery but I do like my revenge lightly seared with some Salmonella on the inside. I’ll keep you posted.

Spank the Monkeys

My office just instituted a revised dress code. Seems that the monkeys were having a hard time interpreting the old one, and continued to push the envelope of “Business Casual”. Luckily I work in California, which has one of the looser dress codes in the country, so khakis and a nice shirt are acceptable as business casual. As opposed to New York where a full suit and tie are considered casual; It’s only “Business Dress” if you put the stick in your ass for the day. This change in policy was instituted 2 weeks ago. It should be as fresh in their minds as the dookie they just heaved across their cubicle. Alas, you can’t teach monkeys to type or how to dress.

So imagine my surprise when I cross paths with Curious George, fully decked out in his wrinkled khakis, un-tucked and wrinkled beach bum shirt, and a pair of crisp clean Keds. I thought a college degree was a pre-requisite to working here, obviously common sense is not. Of course his manager won’t say anything to him. It might hurt his feelings and whooping monkey sounds would reverberate out of the conference room and break the other monkeys concentration. So instead, we will just look at this and all the other monkeys the way you look at an invalid trying to reach their piss bucket or a baby sticking a paperclip in a wall socket, with sadness and remorse.

Back to Basics

I’ve been slacking a little on the blog front in the past couple weeks. However, you are in luck, I am off the meds and about to drop some venom on you, oh gentle reader. This is the first in what will be a week long tirade. So sit back, grab some popcorn, and try not to get your feelings hurt.