Another Monday, another Atkins adventure with New Person. Remember this one? If you bring out the Cubicle map from episode one, she's the one that sits directly across from me reeking of bacon bits and Aussie.
For the entire month she has been with Codsucking Company, Inc., she has done absolutely nothing of substance. She literally surfs the Internet all day, updating us on new carb free solutions to her failure of a diet and what Hollywood star is celebrating their birthday.
"Can you believe that Chris Tucker is thirty-five? Remember his first movie where he was a crack head?"
I said in my head, "No, bitch, because that was Chris Rock. All black people don't look alike."
New Person spoke with Bacon Bits in her fangs, "What time are you girls going into the kitchen to eat lunch? I'm so excited about what I brought to eat. We can discuss American Idol."
Jesus, help us and guide us and tie this bitch's toes behind her Atkins ass.
I just wanted to get another shitty lunch out of the way. "Let's eat now. I'll round up the rest." After all, I wasn't going to be miserable alone.
New Person ruined my hopes of a peaceful and Aussie free smelling lunch. I think of ways to get her back. I write a note to myself to hide her bacon bits.
As soon as New Person brought out her assortment of Atkins originals, the fun began. I immediately threw up in my mouth when I saw New Person rolling a Slim Jim into a melted string cheese tortilla.
As she spoke, a piece of Slim Jim few from her mouth, landing on her size small shirt (Please note that she is a size large). "I just love the guy in American Idol that had the tracheotomy. Imagine if the doctors were right when they said he would never talk again. So sad!"
Yeast said nothing as she ate her third serving of cottage cheese. All she eats is cottage cheese and pickle juice. I guess those are easier to throw up. Despite her recent bulimia, she hasn't lost any weight. It has to be because of all the yeast in her panties. She is more swollen from the waist down.
Lunch finally ended, the torture long and painful. I go to the bathroom to wash my hands in case some Slim Jim got on me. As I entered the bathroom, something greeted me; something fucking hideous reeked from the stall. I decided it was a mixture of baby shit and a paper mill. I threw up in my mouth for the second time today when a voice echoed from the Stinky Stall, "That last carb bar did not agree with me."
I think I heard a plop.
New Person farts, "Don't mind me, I'm done."
Excuse me. Don't mind your ass that is radiating the smell. I tried to leave, but I froze. I don't know if it was the shit smell or the throw up in my mouth that forced me to stay in the Smell Hell.
She exited the Stinky Stall. The aroma was more evident as she came to the mirror. I watched in awe as she applied her lip-gloss with her finger. The same finger on the same hand that she did not wash that just wiped her fat ass.
"Well, I gotta check on the final jury selection for the Michael Jackson case. Can you believe no black people are included on the panel? I guess he said it best with the hit song, 'It Doesn't Matter if it's Black or White."
"Yeah. I hope his 'Beat It' hit didn't apply to his current kid convictions." I went along in a hypnotic state. The smell had gotten into my mouth. I could taste it now.
She left the crime scene quickly escaping the soap and water act, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I was officially mortified by this most recent act of New Person.
Yeast walked in. "Damn, bitch, what did you eat? Sick."
Great, now she things I dropped the Slim Jim.
Please don't allow this to happen to you. Necessary steps for prevention are as follows.
Number one, if you have to poop, go to the ground level bathroom where no coworkers can walk in on you. For God's sake, we will know your shoes. Number two, if you go to the bathroom on your floor and have a surprise poo, please flush repeatedly, no talking and wash your fucking hands. Finally, number three, Michael Jackson is fucking guilty, and it doesn't matter if he is black or white.
©2007 Jessica Smith
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
No Couth on my first Business Trip
Finally, Worthless Boss allowed me to accompany him on one of his many business trips. I never understood what happened on these trips, but I always had the desire to find out. After all, there is nothing more exciting than doing the airport walk, pretending to be somebody on their way to a very important destination when in reality their annual Family Reunion awaits. The theme of this year's reunion and corresponding tee shirt makes the traveler even more mysterious and indifferent.
We were also accompanied by the other Account Executive, you know the one with the three month long yeast infection.
“It just won’t go away.”
No shit, slut, it's gonorrhea.
Since I was a Traveling Virgin (a soon to be written country song), I woke up during the night with the horrid fear that I had missed the plane. As a lovely result, I overslept by an hour.
I took a whore bath, threw on travel gear, and headed out the door in fifteen. I arrived at the gate to find Yeast flirting with the ticket man. I had never met such a complete slut in my entire existence. Every Monday we were forced to hear about another romp with her countless and anonymous weekend warriors.
“Remember that stripper, Dance Machine, I told y’all about? You know, the one I met at the male review? Well, I know why they call him a machine," she giggles a Yeasty laugh.
Jesus H. Christ (What the hell does the H stand for, by the way?). Chlamydia ain’t no flower, bitch. I bet she’s the one who danced on the cauliflower growing out of his ass for a good two hours.
I couldn’t believe that my first business trip had to be with the Yeast. The only thing that we had in common was that we enjoyed booze and smokes; on the other hand, I passed out while she fucked herself to sleep. Living la vida loca.
We arrived at our destination around 6pm. We met Client in Mulletsville where the best manes reside with a full on party in the back, business in the front. I needed a cocktail to take the edge off, so we decided to ditch the boss and go to the bar, only to find that the Hawaiian Tropics were having a contest.
After a couple of white wines, I was hooping and hollering with the mullet mania in our corner of the bar. I just adored the pasties on contestant number twelve.
Client was a trip. He knew the Yeast and I could put em' down, so he got us into VIP with a bottle of wine a piece.
After we had finished the bottles, the Yeast had the urge to go back to the pool to go skinny-dipping. Being the responsible one, I called the hotel shuttle to send out their best driver.
Driving Mullet was there in a hair-fluttering flash. The first words out of her two teeth, “Y'all got cash to pay me?"
What cab driver doesn't take plastic?
"Hell, no. Stop at this gas station and I'll go to the ATM."
Me and the Yeast fell into the Circle K. I thought she was going to cream her jeans when she saw that Cheetos were on sale two for one.
"CHEETOS. We must have," the Yeast begins to drool like fucking Niagara Falls.
I was a nervous wreck with all the commotion, so I lit up.
The Circle K behind the counter reacted, "Ma’am, you can't smoke in here."
For God's sake, you would have thought we had just entered a Daughters of the Civil War Luncheon. I’ve never known any Circle K’s to be concerned about smeared shit on the bathroom wall much less a little ash in the chip aisle. I got a couple more puffs, grabbed the two bags of Cheetos, and a Coca Cola Classic.
Since Driving Mullet was salivating on the sterring wheel, I asked if she wanted any of my delicacy. I had a feeling she had a taste for some pieces of my fried orange heaven.
I knew Driving Mullet couldn't resist the two for one deal no more than the rest of us. However, for some reason, she refused my gift. I thought that if I placed a Cheeto on her shoulder, she could no longer refuse; instead, she did not take it, so I ate them off her shoulder until we arrived at the Holiday Inn Express.
The next morning began with my boss banging on my door. I had, once again, overslept. To save time, I wasn't going to shower, but the Cheetos had stained my fingers. Damn those little orange snacks.
I scrubbed the orange from my hands and ran into the meeting. I was sweating cheap white wine from the time I stepped into the coffin like room. Everyone could hear the Cheetos coming back up with a vengeance. I felt like bright orange fireworks were shooting out of my nose.
The lessons learned are obvious, but in case you missed them....
Number one, Cheetos do not come off with just soap and water. Number two, if a yeast infection lasts longer than one application of Monistat, go see your doctor. Finally, number three, all Circle K's are nonsmoking.
Bonus Learning: Thank God himself that Latin is a dead language.
©2007 Jessica Smith
We were also accompanied by the other Account Executive, you know the one with the three month long yeast infection.
“It just won’t go away.”
No shit, slut, it's gonorrhea.
Since I was a Traveling Virgin (a soon to be written country song), I woke up during the night with the horrid fear that I had missed the plane. As a lovely result, I overslept by an hour.
I took a whore bath, threw on travel gear, and headed out the door in fifteen. I arrived at the gate to find Yeast flirting with the ticket man. I had never met such a complete slut in my entire existence. Every Monday we were forced to hear about another romp with her countless and anonymous weekend warriors.
“Remember that stripper, Dance Machine, I told y’all about? You know, the one I met at the male review? Well, I know why they call him a machine," she giggles a Yeasty laugh.
Jesus H. Christ (What the hell does the H stand for, by the way?). Chlamydia ain’t no flower, bitch. I bet she’s the one who danced on the cauliflower growing out of his ass for a good two hours.
I couldn’t believe that my first business trip had to be with the Yeast. The only thing that we had in common was that we enjoyed booze and smokes; on the other hand, I passed out while she fucked herself to sleep. Living la vida loca.
We arrived at our destination around 6pm. We met Client in Mulletsville where the best manes reside with a full on party in the back, business in the front. I needed a cocktail to take the edge off, so we decided to ditch the boss and go to the bar, only to find that the Hawaiian Tropics were having a contest.
After a couple of white wines, I was hooping and hollering with the mullet mania in our corner of the bar. I just adored the pasties on contestant number twelve.
Client was a trip. He knew the Yeast and I could put em' down, so he got us into VIP with a bottle of wine a piece.
After we had finished the bottles, the Yeast had the urge to go back to the pool to go skinny-dipping. Being the responsible one, I called the hotel shuttle to send out their best driver.
Driving Mullet was there in a hair-fluttering flash. The first words out of her two teeth, “Y'all got cash to pay me?"
What cab driver doesn't take plastic?
"Hell, no. Stop at this gas station and I'll go to the ATM."
Me and the Yeast fell into the Circle K. I thought she was going to cream her jeans when she saw that Cheetos were on sale two for one.
"CHEETOS. We must have," the Yeast begins to drool like fucking Niagara Falls.
I was a nervous wreck with all the commotion, so I lit up.
The Circle K behind the counter reacted, "Ma’am, you can't smoke in here."
For God's sake, you would have thought we had just entered a Daughters of the Civil War Luncheon. I’ve never known any Circle K’s to be concerned about smeared shit on the bathroom wall much less a little ash in the chip aisle. I got a couple more puffs, grabbed the two bags of Cheetos, and a Coca Cola Classic.
Since Driving Mullet was salivating on the sterring wheel, I asked if she wanted any of my delicacy. I had a feeling she had a taste for some pieces of my fried orange heaven.
I knew Driving Mullet couldn't resist the two for one deal no more than the rest of us. However, for some reason, she refused my gift. I thought that if I placed a Cheeto on her shoulder, she could no longer refuse; instead, she did not take it, so I ate them off her shoulder until we arrived at the Holiday Inn Express.
The next morning began with my boss banging on my door. I had, once again, overslept. To save time, I wasn't going to shower, but the Cheetos had stained my fingers. Damn those little orange snacks.
I scrubbed the orange from my hands and ran into the meeting. I was sweating cheap white wine from the time I stepped into the coffin like room. Everyone could hear the Cheetos coming back up with a vengeance. I felt like bright orange fireworks were shooting out of my nose.
The lessons learned are obvious, but in case you missed them....
Number one, Cheetos do not come off with just soap and water. Number two, if a yeast infection lasts longer than one application of Monistat, go see your doctor. Finally, number three, all Circle K's are nonsmoking.
Bonus Learning: Thank God himself that Latin is a dead language.
©2007 Jessica Smith
No Couth from the Office Chocolate Whore
Some of the office girls and I were craving chocolate one day after lunch.
"I would crucify a small child for some chocolate right now," New Person in next cube raved. Her Aussie shampoo shit is giving me a headache. I don't know what is more disgusting the bacon bits in her teeth or her crunchy hair.
Long Island cube mate exclaims, "I am joansing for some chocolate too."
I outstretched my fat paw, "Alright, lard asses, give me your contribution and I'll take the walk to Shocki for some peanut M & Ms. You all are just trying to make me fat so Hot Office guy will stop asking me to lunch. Jealously is so ugly, ladies." If this were a Jenna Jamison flick, a lesbian would have licked her finger and touched my ass, making a sizzle noise.
As usual, "Shocki was nice little Asian lady." Not to my surprise, her M & Ms were fucking overpriced like everything else in her Westernized cave. God forbid I have a run in my pantyhose, Shocki would break my pocketbook.
The office girls were waiting at the cubes like a pack of wolves, drool bouncing off their keyboards.
We all met in hushed silence at my cubicle to separate the candy into paper cups, attempting not to arouse the Office Chocolate Whore. The beast was no typical Office Chocolate Whore; he was our main motherfucker, the CEO of our slave trade.
It was too late. When Office Chocolate Whore had begun his afternoon snack stroll, he suspected that my absence was relevant to his craving. Besides, Office Manager had spilled the fucking beans. She was out to get me, I was sure of it. I must deal with her another day and time. On to the problem at hand, my friends.
As the cups were filled and everyone went back to their workstations, the Office Chocolate Whore smelled the chocolate in the stale, office air.
"Ladies, what did you buy me?" he questioned in a John Travolta Grease Lightning manner. All he needed was Olivia Newton John in spandex with her hand in the ass of his Levi’s. She was a real pussy wagon.
How dare he? This son of a selfish bitch makes six figures and is begging the same employees that he pays less than minimum wage to sugar coat his chocolate ass. That cheap bastard should be the one passing out chocolate, not his borderline poverty piss ants.
The Office Chocolate Whore has always been known far and wide for his addiction.
We were in a pitch a couple of months ago when Office Chocolate Whore attempted to devour a tray of cookies in the back of the meeting room. It was ridiculous to the point that the Potential Client paused the meeting so Office Chocolate Whore could get his fourth round of goodies. Embarrassed, he then wrote me a note that read, "When you get a chance, get me some White Chocolate Macadamia nut cookies, preferably the bigger one on the left."
That son of a bitch had mapped out the cookie tray. More audaciously, he was throwing me out on the front lines, making me his sacrificial chocolate lamb. Chocolate was his drug of choice, and I was going to die for his addiction.
I had to put a stop to his addiction once and for all. I thought of an evil plan. I laugh in the face of this Office Chocolate Whore.
"Here you go, Boss. Here is your cup of M & MMmmm," as I sneezed into my hand. I methodically separate his candies into the cup with my germy mitten. I knew he would not take my candies from me. After all, I had corrupted them with my common folk germs, caressed them with my greasy, poor hands.
"Oh, sir. I am so sorry. That sneeze just snuck up on me like an enemy in the Vietnam jungle. I am so sorry that your M & Ms are filled with my germs. Please forgive me."
"That's fine,” he said as he snatched them from my phlegm paw. “I will just wash them off. Thanks, ladies. I can always count on you for candy."
Empty-handed, I wondered what the fuck just happened? This was no normal disease; instantly, I thought of a lifelong lesson that I learned from my Club Pride choreographer. Man whose name I forget in bright Club Pride tee and matching wristband once said, "Those addicted to drugs suffer from a compulsive drug craving and usage and cannot quit by themselves. Treatment is necessary to end this compulsive behavior. Can anyone translate that into sign language for next week‘s performance?"
Club Pride and I pray that help will be sought out by the Office Chocolate Whore as he crawls back to his lair, munching his prize like an African lion crunching a Zebra bone.
A tremendous opportunity exists to effectively change the ways in which the public understands drug abuse and addiction. I have noted some of these below.
Number one, Asian ladies who sell overpriced candies are one of the million to attempt to do their part in stopping the spread of this addiction. Keep selling.
Number two, do not offer chocolate that has been sneezed on, shit on, or extracted out of small children's hand to anyone you may suspect of this disease. Number three, totally non-related, Office Manager will die.
©2007 Jessica Smith
"I would crucify a small child for some chocolate right now," New Person in next cube raved. Her Aussie shampoo shit is giving me a headache. I don't know what is more disgusting the bacon bits in her teeth or her crunchy hair.
Long Island cube mate exclaims, "I am joansing for some chocolate too."
I outstretched my fat paw, "Alright, lard asses, give me your contribution and I'll take the walk to Shocki for some peanut M & Ms. You all are just trying to make me fat so Hot Office guy will stop asking me to lunch. Jealously is so ugly, ladies." If this were a Jenna Jamison flick, a lesbian would have licked her finger and touched my ass, making a sizzle noise.
As usual, "Shocki was nice little Asian lady." Not to my surprise, her M & Ms were fucking overpriced like everything else in her Westernized cave. God forbid I have a run in my pantyhose, Shocki would break my pocketbook.
The office girls were waiting at the cubes like a pack of wolves, drool bouncing off their keyboards.
We all met in hushed silence at my cubicle to separate the candy into paper cups, attempting not to arouse the Office Chocolate Whore. The beast was no typical Office Chocolate Whore; he was our main motherfucker, the CEO of our slave trade.
It was too late. When Office Chocolate Whore had begun his afternoon snack stroll, he suspected that my absence was relevant to his craving. Besides, Office Manager had spilled the fucking beans. She was out to get me, I was sure of it. I must deal with her another day and time. On to the problem at hand, my friends.
As the cups were filled and everyone went back to their workstations, the Office Chocolate Whore smelled the chocolate in the stale, office air.
"Ladies, what did you buy me?" he questioned in a John Travolta Grease Lightning manner. All he needed was Olivia Newton John in spandex with her hand in the ass of his Levi’s. She was a real pussy wagon.
How dare he? This son of a selfish bitch makes six figures and is begging the same employees that he pays less than minimum wage to sugar coat his chocolate ass. That cheap bastard should be the one passing out chocolate, not his borderline poverty piss ants.
The Office Chocolate Whore has always been known far and wide for his addiction.
We were in a pitch a couple of months ago when Office Chocolate Whore attempted to devour a tray of cookies in the back of the meeting room. It was ridiculous to the point that the Potential Client paused the meeting so Office Chocolate Whore could get his fourth round of goodies. Embarrassed, he then wrote me a note that read, "When you get a chance, get me some White Chocolate Macadamia nut cookies, preferably the bigger one on the left."
That son of a bitch had mapped out the cookie tray. More audaciously, he was throwing me out on the front lines, making me his sacrificial chocolate lamb. Chocolate was his drug of choice, and I was going to die for his addiction.
I had to put a stop to his addiction once and for all. I thought of an evil plan. I laugh in the face of this Office Chocolate Whore.
"Here you go, Boss. Here is your cup of M & MMmmm," as I sneezed into my hand. I methodically separate his candies into the cup with my germy mitten. I knew he would not take my candies from me. After all, I had corrupted them with my common folk germs, caressed them with my greasy, poor hands.
"Oh, sir. I am so sorry. That sneeze just snuck up on me like an enemy in the Vietnam jungle. I am so sorry that your M & Ms are filled with my germs. Please forgive me."
"That's fine,” he said as he snatched them from my phlegm paw. “I will just wash them off. Thanks, ladies. I can always count on you for candy."
Empty-handed, I wondered what the fuck just happened? This was no normal disease; instantly, I thought of a lifelong lesson that I learned from my Club Pride choreographer. Man whose name I forget in bright Club Pride tee and matching wristband once said, "Those addicted to drugs suffer from a compulsive drug craving and usage and cannot quit by themselves. Treatment is necessary to end this compulsive behavior. Can anyone translate that into sign language for next week‘s performance?"
Club Pride and I pray that help will be sought out by the Office Chocolate Whore as he crawls back to his lair, munching his prize like an African lion crunching a Zebra bone.
A tremendous opportunity exists to effectively change the ways in which the public understands drug abuse and addiction. I have noted some of these below.
Number one, Asian ladies who sell overpriced candies are one of the million to attempt to do their part in stopping the spread of this addiction. Keep selling.
Number two, do not offer chocolate that has been sneezed on, shit on, or extracted out of small children's hand to anyone you may suspect of this disease. Number three, totally non-related, Office Manager will die.
©2007 Jessica Smith
No Couth in the Elevator
Another day, another dollar. Well, let’s rethink that one. The phrase that would apply to me goes as follows: Another day, another measly dime. Bastards.
I was already fifteen minutes late to work. On top of all the madness, someone had parked in my parking space on the first floor, forcing me to continue the endless circles around the parking deck up to the top level. Damn this day.
Walking up to the office in a daze, I noticed that she was getting on the elevator. I slowed my step so I would not have to ride with the receptionist. Damn, she annoyed the hell out of me. The last elevator ride, she reached into my bag, helping herself to a pack of my Extra gum, the pink kind.
“I’m gonna thieve me some of that gum, girrrrrl.”
I spent the rest of the day wondering what the hell just happened.
As the doors were closing, I thought I was safe. Low and behold, Sticky Fingers spotted me. She quickly shoved her arms between the closing doors only to reveal her latest nail design. Who would have thought that an entire Smurf Decal could fit on a person’s pinky nail?
“Hey, girrrrrl. Get on here and ride.”
Damn. I put one arm over my pocket book, glancing down to make sure nothing was in plain view for her to thieve.
When Office Manager saw me walk in with Sticky, she looked at me like, “Get your ass over here, I got some gossip.” I had seen that look before, so I ran my ass over to her neck of the cubicles.
“You ain’t gonna believe what happened with Sticky Fingers?“
I inquired immediately. “I ain‘t getting any younger. Tell me.“
“She got caught yesterday by Shocki stealing some damn pop tarts from the store downstairs.”
After she told me that Shocki was the Asian lady’s real name that ran the store downstairs and she wasn’t being a complete racist bitch, I couldn‘t believe the words coming out of her mouth. I knew the bitch was a thief, but I thought a harmless one at that. Now that I think of it, she probably stole all the leftover pork from our summer barbecue.
All the girls and I were so excited about that pork for lunch the next day. We had made arrangements to meet in the kitchen at 12 sharp to dig into that swine like nobody’s business. I opened the fridge to find that the pork was missing in action; yet, the hamburger buns were still sitting on the counter.
I went ballistic. I wanted to send an email to the entire office to hold a meeting so I could smell everyone’s breathe for pork. Yes, I was overreacting a bit, but that was a lot of pork.
Sticky Fingers had stolen that pork. I was sure about that now.
“Is she getting fired for stealing the pop tarts?” I immediately envisioned elevator rides free of Sticky. No more tight grip on my bags, no more decaled fingernails, most importantly, leftovers would actually be left over. It truly was a dream come true.
“She didn’t steal from the company, so there is no way that we can fire her.”
“What about the fucking pork?”
Office Manager looked at me like I was crazy. Did that make her a suspect? I didn’t have time to solve the pork mystery right now, but I immediately asked office manager for a key to lock my pocketbook up in my drawer. Bring it on, Sticky, you stole my gum, but you ain’t gonna steal my fake Christian Dior.
With all the excitement, I had to go pee. Unfortunately, I had to walk by the front desk where Sticky resided.
“Hey, girrrrrl. You wanna see my new tattoo.”
What the fuck? I was so beside myself that I wet myself a little.
“Sure, what did you get? Sticky Fingers 4-eva?
“Is that a new band?”
Most thieves are smarter than Sticky, but, as you can see, she wasn’t the brightest apple in the bunch.
“Are you going to show it to me or not. I am about to wet my self.”
It was a butterfly on the small of her back, how original. By this time, my eyeballs were floating, but I had to update Office Manager on the latest gossip with Sticky. How the hell could Sticky afford a tattoo, but not a pop tart?
This is the question that I must leave you with to ponder. Talk amongst yourselves because I am about to burst. Gotta go pee…..
People of the corporate world, listen up……
Number one, don’t ever hold the elevator for someone unless direct eye contact is made. Number two, don’t get a butterfly tattoo anywhere on your body. Those are out like Panama City. Last but certainly not least, number three, don’t take anyone’s pork. It leads to mistrust and office gossip.
©2007 Jessica Smith
I was already fifteen minutes late to work. On top of all the madness, someone had parked in my parking space on the first floor, forcing me to continue the endless circles around the parking deck up to the top level. Damn this day.
Walking up to the office in a daze, I noticed that she was getting on the elevator. I slowed my step so I would not have to ride with the receptionist. Damn, she annoyed the hell out of me. The last elevator ride, she reached into my bag, helping herself to a pack of my Extra gum, the pink kind.
“I’m gonna thieve me some of that gum, girrrrrl.”
I spent the rest of the day wondering what the hell just happened.
As the doors were closing, I thought I was safe. Low and behold, Sticky Fingers spotted me. She quickly shoved her arms between the closing doors only to reveal her latest nail design. Who would have thought that an entire Smurf Decal could fit on a person’s pinky nail?
“Hey, girrrrrl. Get on here and ride.”
Damn. I put one arm over my pocket book, glancing down to make sure nothing was in plain view for her to thieve.
When Office Manager saw me walk in with Sticky, she looked at me like, “Get your ass over here, I got some gossip.” I had seen that look before, so I ran my ass over to her neck of the cubicles.
“You ain’t gonna believe what happened with Sticky Fingers?“
I inquired immediately. “I ain‘t getting any younger. Tell me.“
“She got caught yesterday by Shocki stealing some damn pop tarts from the store downstairs.”
After she told me that Shocki was the Asian lady’s real name that ran the store downstairs and she wasn’t being a complete racist bitch, I couldn‘t believe the words coming out of her mouth. I knew the bitch was a thief, but I thought a harmless one at that. Now that I think of it, she probably stole all the leftover pork from our summer barbecue.
All the girls and I were so excited about that pork for lunch the next day. We had made arrangements to meet in the kitchen at 12 sharp to dig into that swine like nobody’s business. I opened the fridge to find that the pork was missing in action; yet, the hamburger buns were still sitting on the counter.
I went ballistic. I wanted to send an email to the entire office to hold a meeting so I could smell everyone’s breathe for pork. Yes, I was overreacting a bit, but that was a lot of pork.
Sticky Fingers had stolen that pork. I was sure about that now.
“Is she getting fired for stealing the pop tarts?” I immediately envisioned elevator rides free of Sticky. No more tight grip on my bags, no more decaled fingernails, most importantly, leftovers would actually be left over. It truly was a dream come true.
“She didn’t steal from the company, so there is no way that we can fire her.”
“What about the fucking pork?”
Office Manager looked at me like I was crazy. Did that make her a suspect? I didn’t have time to solve the pork mystery right now, but I immediately asked office manager for a key to lock my pocketbook up in my drawer. Bring it on, Sticky, you stole my gum, but you ain’t gonna steal my fake Christian Dior.
With all the excitement, I had to go pee. Unfortunately, I had to walk by the front desk where Sticky resided.
“Hey, girrrrrl. You wanna see my new tattoo.”
What the fuck? I was so beside myself that I wet myself a little.
“Sure, what did you get? Sticky Fingers 4-eva?
“Is that a new band?”
Most thieves are smarter than Sticky, but, as you can see, she wasn’t the brightest apple in the bunch.
“Are you going to show it to me or not. I am about to wet my self.”
It was a butterfly on the small of her back, how original. By this time, my eyeballs were floating, but I had to update Office Manager on the latest gossip with Sticky. How the hell could Sticky afford a tattoo, but not a pop tart?
This is the question that I must leave you with to ponder. Talk amongst yourselves because I am about to burst. Gotta go pee…..
People of the corporate world, listen up……
Number one, don’t ever hold the elevator for someone unless direct eye contact is made. Number two, don’t get a butterfly tattoo anywhere on your body. Those are out like Panama City. Last but certainly not least, number three, don’t take anyone’s pork. It leads to mistrust and office gossip.
©2007 Jessica Smith
Sunday, November 4, 2007
No Couth in the next Cubicle
Welcome to Monday. I despise the very word, the very thought, the very day.
If only I had followed my true calling in life, unemployment.
I didn’t even put my bag down before I headed into the kitchen for my third cup of green tea. Dr. Phil had recently reported that by merely drinking five cups of green tea a day, one could loose five pounds in a month. Honestly, why that fat bastard was giving out advice on weight loss, I do not know. Regardless, I believed every word that talk show hosts spoke after 4pm; for some reason, any talk show host on before 4pm didn’t really hold any merit. No offense, Maury.
As I was dragging out the death march to my cubicle, I noticed Office Manager setting up someone new in the cubicle across from me.
“Oh, hell, no. Not today. Please tell me that you are just trying to be proactive by cleaning up empty workstations. I cannot handle someone knew today. I just fucking can’t. It is Monday morning, for Christ’s sake.”
“First of all, you are a dawn fool for thinking that there is anything proactive coming out of my beaver piss salary. And yes, the new assistant is starting today. I suggest you go add some Bailey’s to that coffee.”
“I told you I no longer drink that common folks morning wake up. I am now cleansing my body with Green Tea, the drink of true royalty.”
“You are full of shit. If you were striving for true royalty, you would have started my getting the hell out of this sweatshop.”
“Damn, right again, Ole Great One.”
This had really put an extra pile of shit on my already shitty day. I hate when someone new starts, especially if they are right across from me. That means that she will be asking me all of the “I’m new and don’t know where shit is” questions.
New Person Question 1: Where is the copier?
New Person Question 2: Can you tell me how to work the postage machine?
New Person Question 3: Whom do you work for? What exactly do you do?
Question 3 is where I take it upon myself to give the “New Person” speech that goes something like this………..
“Well, I do whatever my pathetic boss tells me to do. That usually ranges from faxing to fucking giving a shit about his two ugly kids and their stupid futures. I suggest you do the same thing. By the way, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. Any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask someone else.”
New Person walks in just as I go to get my fourth cup of Royalty. To my surprise, I have never smelled something so much like my high school existence. As she walked past me, I inhaled a bottle of Aussie. She had taken her entire head of hair and dipped it into a can of Aussie. I was sure of it. I even looked for the little kangaroo to jump out of her belly.
I immediately introduced myself and showed her through the gates of hell. She began decorating her cubicle with pictures of her as a fat girl and her as a skinny girl.
New Girl speaks, “This is for inspiration when I crave a chocolate snack. I lost over 150 pounds on the Akins diet.”
That explains why she was filling her desk drawer with Beef Jerky and Bacon Bits.
New Girl continues to speak, “I even wrote Oprah a letter telling her my secret. Can you believe that she wrote me back within two weeks congratulating me on my accomplishment? What a great woman and role model!”
“I’m sure Oprah’s assistant would love to her that. Gotta get to work. Have a great first day. If you have any questions, Office Manager would be happy to help you.”
Office Manager instant messages, “Bitch.”
What a great Monday.
For all of you who have first days, please take some advice from me.
Number one, never believe a fucking word Dr. Phil says. I have not lost any weight and now I have brown teeth like the Brits. Number two, never use hair products with a kangaroo mascot or show a fat picture the first day, neither are good first impressions. Number three, don’t ask anyone where the copier is. It is big enough that you can find it yourself. Finally, number four, Oprah doesn’t even wipe her own ass, much less write people thank you letters.
©2007 Jessica Smith
No Couth in the Elevator
Another day, another dollar. Well, let’s rethink that one. The phrase that would apply to me goes as follows: Another day, another measly dime. Bastards.
I was already fifteen minutes late to work. On top of all the madness, someone had parked in my parking space on the first floor, forcing me to continue the endless circles around the parking deck up to the top level. Damn this day.
Walking up to the office in a daze, I noticed that she was getting on the elevator. I slowed my step so I would not have to ride with the receptionist. Damn, she annoyed the hell out of me. The last elevator ride, she reached into my bag, helping herself to a pack of my Extra gum, the pink kind.
“I’m gonna thieve me some of that gum, girrrrrl.”
I spent the rest of the day wondering what the hell just happened.
As the doors were closing, I thought I was safe. Low and behold, Sticky Fingers spotted me. She quickly shoved her arms between the closing doors only to reveal her latest nail design. Who would have thought that an entire Smurf Decal could fit on a person’s pinky nail?
“Hey, girrrrrl. Get on here and ride.”
Damn. I put one arm over my pocket book, glancing down to make sure nothing was in plain view for her to thieve.
When Office Manager saw me walk in with Sticky, she looked at me like, “Get your ass over here, I got some gossip.” I had seen that look before, so I ran my ass over to her neck of the cubicles.
“You ain’t gonna believe what happened with Sticky Fingers?“
I inquired immediately. “I ain‘t getting any younger. Tell me.“
“She got caught yesterday by Shocki stealing some damn pop tarts from the store downstairs.”
After she told me that Shocki was the Asian lady’s real name that ran the store downstairs and she wasn’t being a complete racist bitch, I couldn‘t believe the words coming out of her mouth. I knew the bitch was a thief, but I thought a harmless one at that. Now that I think of it, she probably stole all the leftover pork from our summer barbecue.
All the girls and I were so excited about that pork for lunch the next day. We had made arrangements to meet in the kitchen at 12 sharp to dig into that swine like nobody’s business. I opened the fridge to find that the pork was missing in action; yet, the hamburger buns were still sitting on the counter.
I went ballistic. I wanted to send an email to the entire office to hold a meeting so I could smell everyone’s breathe for pork. Yes, I was overreacting a bit, but that was a lot of pork.
Sticky Fingers had stolen that pork. I was sure about that now.
“Is she getting fired for stealing the pop tarts?” I immediately envisioned elevator rides free of Sticky. No more tight grip on my bags, no more decaled fingernails, most importantly, leftovers would actually be left over. It truly was a dream come true.
“She didn’t steal from the company, so there is no way that we can fire her.”
“What about the fucking pork?”
Office Manager looked at me like I was crazy. Did that make her a suspect? I didn’t have time to solve the pork mystery right now, but I immediately asked office manager for a key to lock my pocketbook up in my drawer. Bring it on, Sticky, you stole my gum, but you ain’t gonna steal my fake Christian Dior.
With all the excitement, I had to go pee. Unfortunately, I had to walk by the front desk where Sticky resided.
“Hey, girrrrrl. You wanna see my new tattoo.”
What the fuck? I was so beside myself that I wet myself a little.
“Sure, what did you get? Sticky Fingers 4-eva?
“Is that a new band?”
Most thieves are smarter than Sticky, but, as you can see, she wasn’t the brightest apple in the bunch.
“Are you going to show it to me or not. I am about to wet my self.”
It was a butterfly on the small of her back, how original. By this time, my eyeballs were floating, but I had to update Office Manager on the latest gossip with Sticky. How the hell could Sticky afford a tattoo, but not a pop tart?
This is the question that I must leave you with to ponder. Talk amongst yourselves because I am about to burst. Gotta go pee…..
People of the corporate world, listen up……
Number one, don’t ever hold the elevator for someone unless direct eye contact is made. Number two, don’t get a butterfly tattoo anywhere on your body. Those are out like Panama City. Last but certainly not least, number three, don’t take anyone’s pork. It leads to mistrust and office gossip.
©2007 Jessica Smith
I was already fifteen minutes late to work. On top of all the madness, someone had parked in my parking space on the first floor, forcing me to continue the endless circles around the parking deck up to the top level. Damn this day.
Walking up to the office in a daze, I noticed that she was getting on the elevator. I slowed my step so I would not have to ride with the receptionist. Damn, she annoyed the hell out of me. The last elevator ride, she reached into my bag, helping herself to a pack of my Extra gum, the pink kind.
“I’m gonna thieve me some of that gum, girrrrrl.”
I spent the rest of the day wondering what the hell just happened.
As the doors were closing, I thought I was safe. Low and behold, Sticky Fingers spotted me. She quickly shoved her arms between the closing doors only to reveal her latest nail design. Who would have thought that an entire Smurf Decal could fit on a person’s pinky nail?
“Hey, girrrrrl. Get on here and ride.”
Damn. I put one arm over my pocket book, glancing down to make sure nothing was in plain view for her to thieve.
When Office Manager saw me walk in with Sticky, she looked at me like, “Get your ass over here, I got some gossip.” I had seen that look before, so I ran my ass over to her neck of the cubicles.
“You ain’t gonna believe what happened with Sticky Fingers?“
I inquired immediately. “I ain‘t getting any younger. Tell me.“
“She got caught yesterday by Shocki stealing some damn pop tarts from the store downstairs.”
After she told me that Shocki was the Asian lady’s real name that ran the store downstairs and she wasn’t being a complete racist bitch, I couldn‘t believe the words coming out of her mouth. I knew the bitch was a thief, but I thought a harmless one at that. Now that I think of it, she probably stole all the leftover pork from our summer barbecue.
All the girls and I were so excited about that pork for lunch the next day. We had made arrangements to meet in the kitchen at 12 sharp to dig into that swine like nobody’s business. I opened the fridge to find that the pork was missing in action; yet, the hamburger buns were still sitting on the counter.
I went ballistic. I wanted to send an email to the entire office to hold a meeting so I could smell everyone’s breathe for pork. Yes, I was overreacting a bit, but that was a lot of pork.
Sticky Fingers had stolen that pork. I was sure about that now.
“Is she getting fired for stealing the pop tarts?” I immediately envisioned elevator rides free of Sticky. No more tight grip on my bags, no more decaled fingernails, most importantly, leftovers would actually be left over. It truly was a dream come true.
“She didn’t steal from the company, so there is no way that we can fire her.”
“What about the fucking pork?”
Office Manager looked at me like I was crazy. Did that make her a suspect? I didn’t have time to solve the pork mystery right now, but I immediately asked office manager for a key to lock my pocketbook up in my drawer. Bring it on, Sticky, you stole my gum, but you ain’t gonna steal my fake Christian Dior.
With all the excitement, I had to go pee. Unfortunately, I had to walk by the front desk where Sticky resided.
“Hey, girrrrrl. You wanna see my new tattoo.”
What the fuck? I was so beside myself that I wet myself a little.
“Sure, what did you get? Sticky Fingers 4-eva?
“Is that a new band?”
Most thieves are smarter than Sticky, but, as you can see, she wasn’t the brightest apple in the bunch.
“Are you going to show it to me or not. I am about to wet my self.”
It was a butterfly on the small of her back, how original. By this time, my eyeballs were floating, but I had to update Office Manager on the latest gossip with Sticky. How the hell could Sticky afford a tattoo, but not a pop tart?
This is the question that I must leave you with to ponder. Talk amongst yourselves because I am about to burst. Gotta go pee…..
People of the corporate world, listen up……
Number one, don’t ever hold the elevator for someone unless direct eye contact is made. Number two, don’t get a butterfly tattoo anywhere on your body. Those are out like Panama City. Last but certainly not least, number three, don’t take anyone’s pork. It leads to mistrust and office gossip.
©2007 Jessica Smith
The Uncouth Go to Lunch
Unfortunately, the series continues. I am forced to experience too much due to my current seating arrangement.
We hired another employee to help with the account. I will have to admit that she is not the prettiest of pretty. If that wasn’t enough, she is also cursed with a case of halitosis that radiates from six cubicles away. The girls and I have to take turns sitting beside her at lunch because it truly makes one lose their appetite, except for the receptionist who would lick a chicken wing covered in shit.
Our new hire came over to my desk to ask if I wanted to go to Moe’s. Despite the fact that her breath almost sent me into shock, I obliged. I proceeded to get my fake Dior and head out the door when Bloomie ran from behind, “do you guys care if I tag?” Being the nice person that I am, I allowed the fiasco to continue into public, not thinking of the innocent children.
The lunch began with Bloomie ordering the most hearty burrito on the menu, while babbling about how much weight she had lost since she began running a mile after work. I wondered what metric system she was using to calculate her mile as Hot Breath began to order. I swear to the heavens the waiter’s eyes began to water. A cloud of heinous odor came from her mouth, destroying his hope of a pleasant afternoon, knowing that the smell was in his hair and clothes for eternity. A baby began to scream; an innocent child had been exposed. Why, God, why did I agree to this?
I ate so fast that I got heartburn. As the lunch winded down, I had a ciggy to calm the nerves. We were eating outside, so I lit up after everyone was done. Hot Breath shot me an odd look as I thought she finally might have smelled her own breath, she remarked, “don’t those cigarettes leave a bad taste in your mouth?
I must have looked as if I had seen a fucking ghost. I replied, “no, I just chew gum a lot.”
What the hell just happened? Hot Breath has no fucking idea that it smells as if someone had taken a massive shit in her mouth. I guess it is only fair that if you have the disease you are the only one that can’t smell it. It really represents the fact that life isn’t fair in the least bit.
After the hellacious lunch episode, we went back to the slave trade. As Hot Breath walked to her crusty smelling cubicle, I breathed in the only bit of fresh air left. Bloomie was talking about Hot Breath, but I wasn’t paying her any mind. Then I heard something about Hot Breath that infuriated me. Bloomie made the comment, “she would look so much better without her glasses.”
Taken back from her comment, I thought to myself, “if you ever feel compelled to tell me what would better my appearance, be prepared for a big ‘Fuck You.’ Instead, I said nothing to the Bitchy Bloomie, hoping she would disappear in Hot Breath’s after lunch cloud of brutal breath.
Another day, another damn dime. I decided that this was the first day of the rest of my life. Finally, something to look forward to.
I can only hope that you learned something from this installment of Bloomie and friends. To sum up today’s lessons….
Number one, purchase ear plugs if you are in an open cubicle environment.
Number two, if your breath is rank, do something about it for the sake of others around you. Number three, never lick a chicken wing smeared in shit if only for the mere fact that it is just very unattractive.
©2007 Jessica Smith
We hired another employee to help with the account. I will have to admit that she is not the prettiest of pretty. If that wasn’t enough, she is also cursed with a case of halitosis that radiates from six cubicles away. The girls and I have to take turns sitting beside her at lunch because it truly makes one lose their appetite, except for the receptionist who would lick a chicken wing covered in shit.
Our new hire came over to my desk to ask if I wanted to go to Moe’s. Despite the fact that her breath almost sent me into shock, I obliged. I proceeded to get my fake Dior and head out the door when Bloomie ran from behind, “do you guys care if I tag?” Being the nice person that I am, I allowed the fiasco to continue into public, not thinking of the innocent children.
The lunch began with Bloomie ordering the most hearty burrito on the menu, while babbling about how much weight she had lost since she began running a mile after work. I wondered what metric system she was using to calculate her mile as Hot Breath began to order. I swear to the heavens the waiter’s eyes began to water. A cloud of heinous odor came from her mouth, destroying his hope of a pleasant afternoon, knowing that the smell was in his hair and clothes for eternity. A baby began to scream; an innocent child had been exposed. Why, God, why did I agree to this?
I ate so fast that I got heartburn. As the lunch winded down, I had a ciggy to calm the nerves. We were eating outside, so I lit up after everyone was done. Hot Breath shot me an odd look as I thought she finally might have smelled her own breath, she remarked, “don’t those cigarettes leave a bad taste in your mouth?
I must have looked as if I had seen a fucking ghost. I replied, “no, I just chew gum a lot.”
What the hell just happened? Hot Breath has no fucking idea that it smells as if someone had taken a massive shit in her mouth. I guess it is only fair that if you have the disease you are the only one that can’t smell it. It really represents the fact that life isn’t fair in the least bit.
After the hellacious lunch episode, we went back to the slave trade. As Hot Breath walked to her crusty smelling cubicle, I breathed in the only bit of fresh air left. Bloomie was talking about Hot Breath, but I wasn’t paying her any mind. Then I heard something about Hot Breath that infuriated me. Bloomie made the comment, “she would look so much better without her glasses.”
Taken back from her comment, I thought to myself, “if you ever feel compelled to tell me what would better my appearance, be prepared for a big ‘Fuck You.’ Instead, I said nothing to the Bitchy Bloomie, hoping she would disappear in Hot Breath’s after lunch cloud of brutal breath.
Another day, another damn dime. I decided that this was the first day of the rest of my life. Finally, something to look forward to.
I can only hope that you learned something from this installment of Bloomie and friends. To sum up today’s lessons….
Number one, purchase ear plugs if you are in an open cubicle environment.
Number two, if your breath is rank, do something about it for the sake of others around you. Number three, never lick a chicken wing smeared in shit if only for the mere fact that it is just very unattractive.
©2007 Jessica Smith
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