I often run into coworkers on my lunch break. There aren’t a lot of restaurants to choose from around here, so it’s usually the Mexican place or the Chinese place or the Mexican place staffed entirely by Chinese people.
And yes, I know they’re actually Chinese. I’m not just calling them Chinese because they look Asian. And I don’t describe every soft drink as Coke.
I do, however, call all teenagers dipshits. Accurate? Maybe not. But it rings true.
Anyway, I don’t mind them mostly. The coworkers, that is. Mine is the kind of office that’s mostly staffed by women. My job is usually done by girls.
No, I don’t run the popcorn machine down at the miniature golf course.
I get along with women. We get each other on a deep spiritual level, which usually means they won’t sleep with me. But that’s cool, because Facebook pictures are getting skankier and skankier.
Yes, I masturbate a lot. And once I fingered a coworker in the back of a Subaru. Different job at the time. I’d never do it again, since there wasn’t much to our connection beyond the fingering, and that’s a weird sense memory to have during an office meeting.
So I’m fine with most of my coworkers. Other than the dipshit teenagers who work part-time making copies and running mail, these are the kind of people I wouldn’t mind waving to in the grocery store parking lot. I won’t talk to them, but I’ll smile at least.
But there’s one coworker I hate. She’s just a horrible woman. Her skin is stretched and cracked and weathered like the Sphinx. She glows orange, and I don’t know if it’s because of her permanently tattooed makeup or the seething hatred that bubbles just under her leathery surface.
She’s racist like nobody’s business. Which really shouldn’t be anybody’s business except she’s one of those racists who assumes that because you’re white too, you must be in on the joke. She told me the other day that it’s no wonder the inauguration was so crowded, since black people don’t have jobs. Unbelievable.
Of course, she did have the propriety to say “black people” that time, so that’s not nothing, I suppose.
She’s big into Jesus. Always talking about her church. Loved Sarah Palin. One of her friends, she told me, had turned against the Republican party because Sarah Palin shoots animals from aerial vehicles. “That’s just wrong,” my coworker’s friend said. Which seems a little off-point, but if hunting ethics are a gateway drug to rational thinking, who am I to criticize? My coworker, though, she wasn’t too surprised. Her friend is also “for abortion”, so who can take her opinion seriously?
Just a horrible person, my coworker. Should I tell you her name? Probably not, but I don’t think she reads CHUD. I don’t think she reads, really.
And no, that’s not some kind of elitist liberal jab. At an office lunch one time, she was like, “I don’t get books.”
That’s an exact quote. I wrote it on my napkin in tartar sauce, which I had to let dry before I could read.
So I decided today to do without the Mexican or the Chinese or the Chinese Mexican and go to the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet.
Technically, it’s an “all-you-care-to-eat” buffet, but who am I kidding?
Anyway, I’m sitting next to the window, and I think there’s a jalapeno on my slice of pan supreme. Shouldn’t be jalapenos on the pan supreme, I’m thinking, so I go to pick it off. But it’s not a jalapeno. It’s like a dried waterbug thing.
So I’m ready to puke because I suddenly catch a whiff of the pizza slice, which in addition to smelling like delicious cheese and peppers also has the undercurrent of sour dead bug smell. This is the worst.
Then I look up and see my coworker walking across the parking lot. Dammit, I’m thinking, I can’t escape these people! But there’s her fucking lizard foot face. It’s cold today, so she’s wearing this hideous leopard fur parka thing. But it’s also windy, so her hideous parka is flapping open.
And because Cindy’s a disgusting skank, she’s wearing this tissue-thin shoulderless top. Yeah, her name is Cindy, so there you go. And her meth-hewn clavicles are protruding from her flesh like some sort of parasite. And because it’s drizzly outside, she’s covered in a fine, moist sheen that soaked through her top, turning it translucent so that I can see her pitch-black racist nipples right there in public.
Long story short, sometimes I don’t think my erections know a goddamn thing about me.
A new home awaits you. — By Travis Newton