Thursday, August 6, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A Shitty Conversationalist
There are certain things people hear about, and while you nod in amazement as the tale is told, deep down you're thinking, "No way, that kind of thing only happens in the movies, it's too ridiculous."
Well, I had one of those things happen to be the other day, except I was the one performing the unspeakable act, and some poor sap was on the receiving end of it.
But let's start at the beginning.
It was a shitty day today. I was told to come into the office at 7:15 a.m., which for those of you keeping score at home, is an hour and 45 minutes earlier than usual.
The only thing worse than getting in so fucking early, is when you find out there was no need to have you come in so fucking early. I busted by balls to get in that early, including not taking a shower in the morning.
So I get into work, only to waste almost an hour because the stupid fucking thing I have to cover is not until 9 a.m. Which is the time I normally get in.
So I'm pissed, because I've wasted half of the day, and there was shit I had to do. Specifically, I had to track down eight people and get quotes and pictures.
But let me add a caveat to that last sentence. I was pissed, but a certain something calmed my mood. And when I say "calmed my mood", I mean "made me get a boner while standing," which is no small feat, especially with jeans on.
Because I was hanging out at some amphitheater, and there was a chick there filming video for something, and she was driving me up the wall. With hotness.
You see, she was dressed simply enough, with a navy blue polo shirt and some khakis. What enchanted me about this particular lass however, was how her khakis were molded around the most perfect ass I have ever seen on a white girl.
Now I'm not normally as ass man. I actually prefer a nice, tight stomach to a good ass most of this time. But I'm also a red-blooded male, and therefore, I follow the iceberg rule. For every foot you see of an iceberg above a water, there are nine feet of iceberg below. So for every inch this chick's stomach stuck out (which wasn't a whole lot) ninety percent of her depth was in the ass.
And it was absolute perfection. I have a picture of it. I might post it, but I don't want to violate this poor girl's privacy, even though her face is nowhere to be found in the dozens of photos I snapped, which I pretended to be taking of the ceremony.
Her ass is so signature, I'm sure every male in the D.C. metro area would recognize it.
But I digress. My day wasn't as bad as it seemed for the beginning part.
One of these people I had to track down is a general, who works in a certain five-sided building near Washington, D.C. Generals as a (general?) rule don't give random quotes to jerkass reporters like me, their executive officers get the quote from them.
Well, I get in touch with the XO, and he tells me that the general will call me in about a half hour. By now, it's 4:30 a.m., and I usually leave at 5. It's especially important that I leave on time today, because I have plans for dinner, which I never do.
So of course this is the one fucking day when I'm left playing with myself waiting for someone to call me.
To add a little bit if pubic hair on this shit salad, I really had to take a shit. And I mean bad. But it's 4:30, and I have half an hour to go before I can even comprehend leaving my desk, and I probably had to give it about a ten-minute grace period, just to be sure.
So I'm busting heinous ass for half an hour as people are leaving my office. I had to turn my desk fan off, lest the pre-shit flatulence set off the biological attack alarms, so I'm also sweating bullets.
At 5:05, I'm sitting at my desk, wondering how discretely I could dispose of a trash bag full of shit, the phone rings. It's the general's assistant.
She says, "General [blank] is still busy, but he should be available in about 20 minutes. What time do you usually leave."
At this point the pressure in my colon is causing me to hallucinate slightly, and apparently I told her I usually leave at about 5:30. That was utter horseshit, if you'll pardon the pun, but I said it without thinking.
So she says, "Okay, well, give me your cell, and if he's available before 5:30, and after that, I'll have him call your cell phone."
Like Ron Burgundy after jumping into the bear pit, I immediately regretted my decision.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Now I have to stay here another half hour, putting a serious crimp in my dinner plans, and an even more serious crimp in my colo-rectal health.
So I sweat out another 25 minutes, and then I limp my way to the bathroom. Of course the shitter stall on my floor is full (AT FIVE FUCKING THIRTY NO LESS!!), so I have to duckwalk up the stairs, careful not to let my cheeks spread too far apart on the dozen or so steps.
I get into the bathroom, hustle to the far stall with a window view (I like to look at fields while I BM), and drop trou.
I'm just about to let fly like Mussolini from the balcony, when holy santa claus shit, my phone starts ringing.
I have no choice but to pick it up.
And this is the situation you only hear about in the movies. No one ever talks on the phone in a public restroom in real life. Have you ever walked into a public restroom and heard someone on the crapper on the phone? Me neither.
But I'm here, talking to the general's officer while desperately holding in an afternoon's worth of leftovers.
And I couldn't make it.
"Thanks for getting back to me sir, I appreciate it. (and.......RELEASE!!!) What's that? No I don't hear anything. Oh, that? Uh...I just dropped a roll of quarters into a bowl of oatmeal here. Don't worry about that. What's that, you can smell it over the phone?"
I made that last sentence up. He couldn't smell it. But you know who could smell it for sure? The poor bastard who chose that moment to come into the bathroom to wash his hands before he left for the day.
He walks in, is immediately slapped across the face, with a hand made of stank, and has to listen to me talk to this general's officer.
"Yes sir, I'm so glad he'll be able to help. No, we'll be glad to put his quote and photo in the paper. Yep, it will go in this week."
I'm carrying on a perfectly normal interview conversation, despite the fact that concentrated evil is coming out of me. Concentrated evil speckled with the corn I had for lunch.
Here's the real sticky wicket. I am now the only male who works at the newspaper that writes. The other two guys are older, and they're the editor and assistant editor respectively, so they're not likely to be tracking down many leads, especially not on the second-floor shitter on a deadline day.
So this poor fuck, God bless his soul, now knows what I did. The worst part? I have no idea who he was. He didn't even scream, "Oh my God, it's like the holocaust in this restroom!" (which makes him a better man than I) when he walked in, so I couldn't get his voice.
So now I have to go into the office tomorrow not knowing which is my fellow workers now thinks that I am a subhuman piece of scum. That should be fun.
Well, I had one of those things happen to be the other day, except I was the one performing the unspeakable act, and some poor sap was on the receiving end of it.
But let's start at the beginning.
It was a shitty day today. I was told to come into the office at 7:15 a.m., which for those of you keeping score at home, is an hour and 45 minutes earlier than usual.
The only thing worse than getting in so fucking early, is when you find out there was no need to have you come in so fucking early. I busted by balls to get in that early, including not taking a shower in the morning.
So I get into work, only to waste almost an hour because the stupid fucking thing I have to cover is not until 9 a.m. Which is the time I normally get in.
So I'm pissed, because I've wasted half of the day, and there was shit I had to do. Specifically, I had to track down eight people and get quotes and pictures.
But let me add a caveat to that last sentence. I was pissed, but a certain something calmed my mood. And when I say "calmed my mood", I mean "made me get a boner while standing," which is no small feat, especially with jeans on.
Because I was hanging out at some amphitheater, and there was a chick there filming video for something, and she was driving me up the wall. With hotness.
You see, she was dressed simply enough, with a navy blue polo shirt and some khakis. What enchanted me about this particular lass however, was how her khakis were molded around the most perfect ass I have ever seen on a white girl.
Now I'm not normally as ass man. I actually prefer a nice, tight stomach to a good ass most of this time. But I'm also a red-blooded male, and therefore, I follow the iceberg rule. For every foot you see of an iceberg above a water, there are nine feet of iceberg below. So for every inch this chick's stomach stuck out (which wasn't a whole lot) ninety percent of her depth was in the ass.
And it was absolute perfection. I have a picture of it. I might post it, but I don't want to violate this poor girl's privacy, even though her face is nowhere to be found in the dozens of photos I snapped, which I pretended to be taking of the ceremony.
Her ass is so signature, I'm sure every male in the D.C. metro area would recognize it.
But I digress. My day wasn't as bad as it seemed for the beginning part.
One of these people I had to track down is a general, who works in a certain five-sided building near Washington, D.C. Generals as a (general?) rule don't give random quotes to jerkass reporters like me, their executive officers get the quote from them.
Well, I get in touch with the XO, and he tells me that the general will call me in about a half hour. By now, it's 4:30 a.m., and I usually leave at 5. It's especially important that I leave on time today, because I have plans for dinner, which I never do.
So of course this is the one fucking day when I'm left playing with myself waiting for someone to call me.
To add a little bit if pubic hair on this shit salad, I really had to take a shit. And I mean bad. But it's 4:30, and I have half an hour to go before I can even comprehend leaving my desk, and I probably had to give it about a ten-minute grace period, just to be sure.
So I'm busting heinous ass for half an hour as people are leaving my office. I had to turn my desk fan off, lest the pre-shit flatulence set off the biological attack alarms, so I'm also sweating bullets.
At 5:05, I'm sitting at my desk, wondering how discretely I could dispose of a trash bag full of shit, the phone rings. It's the general's assistant.
She says, "General [blank] is still busy, but he should be available in about 20 minutes. What time do you usually leave."
At this point the pressure in my colon is causing me to hallucinate slightly, and apparently I told her I usually leave at about 5:30. That was utter horseshit, if you'll pardon the pun, but I said it without thinking.
So she says, "Okay, well, give me your cell, and if he's available before 5:30, and after that, I'll have him call your cell phone."
Like Ron Burgundy after jumping into the bear pit, I immediately regretted my decision.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Now I have to stay here another half hour, putting a serious crimp in my dinner plans, and an even more serious crimp in my colo-rectal health.
So I sweat out another 25 minutes, and then I limp my way to the bathroom. Of course the shitter stall on my floor is full (AT FIVE FUCKING THIRTY NO LESS!!), so I have to duckwalk up the stairs, careful not to let my cheeks spread too far apart on the dozen or so steps.
I get into the bathroom, hustle to the far stall with a window view (I like to look at fields while I BM), and drop trou.
I'm just about to let fly like Mussolini from the balcony, when holy santa claus shit, my phone starts ringing.
I have no choice but to pick it up.
And this is the situation you only hear about in the movies. No one ever talks on the phone in a public restroom in real life. Have you ever walked into a public restroom and heard someone on the crapper on the phone? Me neither.
But I'm here, talking to the general's officer while desperately holding in an afternoon's worth of leftovers.
And I couldn't make it.
"Thanks for getting back to me sir, I appreciate it. (and.......RELEASE!!!) What's that? No I don't hear anything. Oh, that? Uh...I just dropped a roll of quarters into a bowl of oatmeal here. Don't worry about that. What's that, you can smell it over the phone?"
I made that last sentence up. He couldn't smell it. But you know who could smell it for sure? The poor bastard who chose that moment to come into the bathroom to wash his hands before he left for the day.
He walks in, is immediately slapped across the face, with a hand made of stank, and has to listen to me talk to this general's officer.
"Yes sir, I'm so glad he'll be able to help. No, we'll be glad to put his quote and photo in the paper. Yep, it will go in this week."
I'm carrying on a perfectly normal interview conversation, despite the fact that concentrated evil is coming out of me. Concentrated evil speckled with the corn I had for lunch.
Here's the real sticky wicket. I am now the only male who works at the newspaper that writes. The other two guys are older, and they're the editor and assistant editor respectively, so they're not likely to be tracking down many leads, especially not on the second-floor shitter on a deadline day.
So this poor fuck, God bless his soul, now knows what I did. The worst part? I have no idea who he was. He didn't even scream, "Oh my God, it's like the holocaust in this restroom!" (which makes him a better man than I) when he walked in, so I couldn't get his voice.
So now I have to go into the office tomorrow not knowing which is my fellow workers now thinks that I am a subhuman piece of scum. That should be fun.
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