Skin and Pizza
When you work in an office with eighty some odd people, there are bound to be things that disturb you on a daily basis. Close talkers, loud talkers, bad breath and body oder come to mind.
This where I do my Rabbi Glickman from Seinfeld impersonation. There is a person in my office, let's call him Marty. Well, Marty seems to have an overwhelming urge to pick at his skin. He will do this in his office. He does it in meetings, and just walking through the hall. You will see him walk by and his hands will be probing and prodding his head face and arms. Now this would be all fine and dandy if not for one little point. What "prizes" he finds automatically go into his mouth.
Yes, bits of skin, scabs, zits, and magic nose goblins all go into that mug. It is great fun. It is also sure to kill the enthusiasm of any chili cook-off. I have a lovely time averting my eyes from him in various office shindigs, as to not hurl my vegetable soup all over the floor. And I need all the nourishment I can get.
As I was thinking about writing this last week, the planets aligned, massive sunflares or some other cosmic bullshit intervened and Marty was let go. I can't help thinking that in some weird way, I was responsible. Now that's just the bees knees. Nothing can put a half smile on my face like the thought of me causing someone else misery.
With all this talk of office functions, to me, one word comes to mind, pizza. Yes, that saturated fat laden greasy blob of cheesy cardboard. Delish. But for the tightwads in corporate america, it is a godsend. Like a British hooker, it's cheap and nasty. For any non-client paid meeting in my office we have, only pizza is provided. I swear, the pizza shop our pies come from must get their cheese from a moulded plastics factory. This doesn't curtail anyone's fervor for mowing this sludge down. Oh no, not the cows in my office. Like a dog going down on a bored housewife's peanut butter- smeared crotch, they go to town. OM NOM NOM.
On the other hand, meetings paid for by a client are spectacular events with salads, and panini sandwiches. This is comparable to first class on a trans-atlantic flight. Those who aren't invited to the fancy meetings, i.e., the poor slobs in steerage, can only stare into the conference room and dream.
Oh well that's the seemingly never-ending misery called life. So raise a slice, pick your nose, and Marty, wherever you are, drive those poor bastards in the next company insane.