So lately I’m extremely wary of throwing away receipts of any kind in public garbage cans because what if someone finds one of my ATM receipts and somehow, you know, deflowers my credit score. I couldn’t handle that so I make sure to throw those away at work, home or some trash receptacle that I can fully trust. Hey, is that too much to ask, a little peace of mind when I throw away my garbage, without having to look over my shoulder every five seconds to make sure no ones mussing about in there, examining my wrappers. In fact, if that low-fat lemon yogurt container I just threw out never gets looked at by another set of human eyes, I’ll die a happy man. Cause, you know what they do in there, those trash-people, don’t you? I used to think they were looking for spare food too but boy was I wrong. No they’re looking for information. That’s right. They’re scraping for DNA, collecting identities to do who knows what with them, sell em on ebay, on the auction block, for crying out loud. Who’re the slaves now? Hey, stop looking at my wrappers! What’s the big idea?
Category Archives: office
There’s this guy at work I talk to now and again, let’s call him Jake. And I noticed just the other day that Jake tends to evoke “gas chambers” quite a bit more than the average person just in normal conversation.
Take yesterday, we were discussing the lethargic pace of a particular project, blah blah blah, apparently higher-ups were eager to see some progress, and he comes out and says, “Well, they’re not sending me to the gas chambers just yet but…” as if the impending quandary he’s talking about isn’t as bad as it could be, i.e. it hasn’t reached “Holocaust-level” priority as of this morning, but if what’s-her-name doesn’t send ‘comps’ by the end of the week, who knows what might happen, doors could be broken down, people dragged from their homes screaming in the middle of the night, uncomfortable conference-calls tantamount to genocide, no one knows for sure. But heck I got the point, I better connect with what’s-her-name about those ‘comps’ before my name gets written on some list in permanent marker, jeez.
And yeah, so this is Jake’s hyperbole of choice, sure it’s slightly culturally insensitive but it’s also sort funny too. Yargh.
What’s your hyperbole of choice?
First one happened about a week ago: Ricky and I were coming home and there was a Latino-delivery-guy waiting outside our place. He asked if we ordered food, and we were like, “No, but we’ll let you in,” he thanked us. “Must be the girls upstairs that ordered,” one of us said. And while we were climbing the stairs together (since the girls live on the third floor), some deep-tickling inside me nudged, “Make some small talk with the delivery-guy, Matt” so I obliged this feeling and asked, “Pequena?” And the guy seemed a little embarrassed, “Oh no, Thai,” he answered. Yeah I made the fatal leap of assuming he was delivering Mexican food cause he was Latino. Terrible-horrible-blah. Ricky beat me up afterward, so I got what was coming to me.
Second is a bit more subtle. Happened a few days ago. I was leaving work, waiting for the elevator, and some cleaning-guy was starting to vacuum, and I was nearly certain of two things: firstly, that I heard him fart, and second, that he knew I heard him fart. We were alone mind you. And he starts walking toward me and says, “I’m sorry,” and I answered, “Ah, it’s fine,” while making the universal gesture for “it doesn’t smell that bad,” even though it sort of did. But slightly confused he then says, “Excuse me,” and moves past me to plug in his vacuum! He was just saying, “I’m sorry,” like, “Sorry, I just need to get past you,” but I mistook it for a fart-apology. What a world!
Gee, Golly. What a week. First locksmith-blackmail now this. Ok. So I’m entering the C-train at Lafayette this morning, sort of in a hurry since it’s around 9:02 AM and the train has been wont to arrive between 9:04 and 9:08 most days (who’s counting?), and there’s this crowd of three boys (probably around 16, but larger than me, big surprise) surrounding the single turnstile headed toward Manhattan. As I scurry closer, it appears, through their gesturing and words I can half make out, that one of the boys mistakenly swiped on the Manhattan side instead of the other side, which goes deeper into Brooklyn. So as I try to swipe myself, which is difficult since they’re blocking the way, one of them asks me, “Hey can you swipe on the other side – we already swiped on this side by mistake.” Sounded like a reasonable thing to ask. But just then I hear the train coming – granted it could be an A, but who’s willing to take that chance? It must be 9:05 by now, dear God! I get flustered.
I reach toward the turnstile to enter, but before I get there: “HEY, that’s our swipe!” the kids yell. “Sorry I sort of want to make this train,” I fumble fogey-like, again reaching for the revolving metal bars. “That’s illegal!” one cries, but when I finally try to move through the turnstile, wouldn’t you know – it doesn’t budge. The kids never swiped at all!
So I get out my Metrocard, hear the train-breaks sqeaking (Shite, it is a C!) while one of the boys screams, “But we already swiped here!” “I JUST TRIED IT AND IT DIDN’T MOVE, MAN!” I yell out of nowhere, swipe my card on the 2nd try (after one flub) as the kids wryly giggle, and I stumble down the stairs just as the train starts leaving. Shite. At least I now have ample time to be pretty-darn embarrassed about yelling at some youths, calling them “man” for some reason (what was that about?), and just plain feeling-all-square and blah and stuff. Fudge, I hate work-clothes.
As far as I can tell, there isn’t anyone disabled that works on my office floor, yet I understand, of course, at any minute, one could pop up out of thin air. You know, POOF, “Oh, hi nice to meet you,” I would offer politely, maintaining eye contact obviously, making sure not to look down at their useless legs, (wow, insensitive). Yet until that happens, once in a while, when the other stalls are occupied or if I feel like I need an extra bit of breathing room (always), yeah, I might “use” the handicapped stall (is that still PC?).
Nevertheless I always feel slightly bad about it, embarrassed when I come out of the stall and someone sees me, even though they’re not disabled themselves (yet what if they have an effed-up son at home?), etc. But should these stalls remain empty if no one really needs them, as almost-monuments to disabled people everywhere, or is it appropriate to jump-on-in, as long as you’re quick and clean about it?
Heck, we have one of those handicapped-buttons on our exit doors that when pressed opens the door for you instead of having to be pushed (oh the burden), and countless “normals” push them every darn day! Just something to stew upon, I guess. Woo, hope your summers have been swell, sorry for the ridiculous hiatus…
Am I the only one that gets sort of insulted when you’re waiting for the elevator (having already pressed the down-button) and then someone else comes by, and even though it’s clear the button’s been pressed (it has a red tint) they still press it again! They tap it quickly as if they’re saying, “Uh…maybe it didn’t register the time you did it…” At first I thought it was an OCD thing, that this particular person just had to be part of the elevator-button-pressing process or else they’d shrink into a ball of nothing, whathaveyou. But, no, it’s happened way too often with such a diverse amount of people that it’s clearly some gross human-nature glitch plaguing a good portion of us (not me), argh!
But, anyway. What I love to do lately whenever “it” happens is to give “them” this subtle look (I’ve been working on) that says, “Wow, that was a waste and I’m embarrassed for you…” Ask me sometime, I’ll do it for you, I can use the practice.
Slight overreaction? Nah… (have good weekends, woo!)
So this is pretty hard for me but, here goes nothing. Ok um. I’ve had two “balls dreams” in my life. Firstly, what’s a balls dream? (valid question) Well, a balls dream, as I see it, is when you’re dreaming, and you’re with someone (a female friend, your mom), someone who wouldn’t normally have balls in the real world, and uh, you’re dreaming, you’re talking about Episcopalians, the flat tax, whathaveyou, and then POOF, this person shows you her balls! Just, lays em out, down come the pants (or the skirt), and out come the balls, just completely, you know, nothing sexual, just something that shouldn’t be there, is, for some reason, uh oh, they’re there! Make sense? Um. Balls.
And uh. My first balls dream was way back in elementary school. This girl who I was sort of friendly with, but was also sort of in competition with in terms of who was smartest in the class, this girl, we’ll call her “Megan,” she showed up in my dream one night out of the blue (you can see where this is going). We’re talking about the latest homework assignment or something, I don’t really remember the details, but what I do remember is that big set of balls she sticks out of the front of her shorts. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want approval for her balls. Are they too oily? No, none of that. (gross!) She just puts em out there. They look like a second chin only much much lower. And, yeah, since that balls dream, I never could look at Megan the same, cause that’s what balls dreams do! They completely taint perfectly cordial relationships. Because it’s impossible to get that image out of your head. She became Megan-balls for the rest of time I knew her (she’s still Megan-balls somewhere!) and there’s nothing I could do about it. (sigh)
And the reason I’m writing about this is that last week, I had my second balls dream! My boss. My female boss. We’ll call her “Stephie”. We’re discussing “the Internet,” in my dream. I’ve giving her my big shbeel about what I think the web can do. She’s smiling. She’s impressed. But little do I know, perhaps a little too impressed, I look down, whoops, she has some balls. Don’t look. Oh man, I looked. Happy, dangly balls, she has some. They’re just out and about, getting some air. “As you were saying about the magic of the web?” Stephie smiles politely. I’m frozen. “Uh…well the um…” I fumble, I stutter and BOOM, I wake up, sweaty, confused, but with the deep down understanding that (sigh) I now work for Stephie-Balls. There was no way around it. “Did you get the Fed Ex out, Matt?” “Uh, yep,” I chirp. Balls. “Did you think the promo was confusing at all, Matt?” Balls balls. “No I thought it was actually one of the better ones we’ve done.” “Oh really, that’s good to hear.” Ballsyballballsbouncyballyballs. And more balls. (sigh)
Yep. I know. It’s a curse. But what can you do? Two balls dreams in 25 years is not too shabby I guess, right? I’m just nervous a little. Um. I hope that one of you (my ball-less friends reading this) isn’t the next to go the way of the balls. God forbid I have a balls dream about someone I really deeply care about. (sigh) And those are my balls dreams.