The Queer Smell

The Smell…

A queer smell has got its grip on the corporate ant hill this morning. When the elevators opened, the odor seized my lungs. It’s a putrid smell, like a fouled Egg McMuffin. Or like an aging co-worker’s guts, which spoiled from digesting too many Krispy Kremes. Perhaps he finally died on the toilet and marinated overnight. I don’t know, but it makes me think I don’t have to work today. One of the “perks” of working in a hi-rise high-finance gig is that nothing is supposed to smell. There should be no smell in the cata-cubicle-combs. That’s the whole thing…sterile. If management fails at this, then I shall throttle down the motors and drift awhile.

Security please…

My building has security. Or I should say, my building has dudes in Men’s Warehouse suits who ogle women way out of their pay scale. All day, they stand there watching Ass come and go. If one of those fanatical demons wanted to make trouble, all he’d have to do is to pretend to deliver Baja Fresh and boom. Game over. It’s not comforting, considering that I work in buildings called the “Twin Towers,” which are exact miniature replicas of the ill-fated towers in New York. Great.

There’s an airport not too far from here too. The Santa Monica Airport. When jets zip in and out I mutter, “Stay away from here, weird fuckers. Shoo God damn it!” I hope those G4’s are full of Big Western oil-men in tailored suits and cowboy hats, inhaling shots of Patron and ravishing the landscape of their secretaries bodies. Guys like JR from Dallas. Guys like that don’t want to die. They want to live forever. They search for the Fountain of Youth in the Earth’s Crust under Texas. They pop pills like popcorn to artificially revive their sex-lives which should have been extinct eons ago. Guys like that do not want to fly a plane into ribs of a skyscraper. Nosiree bob.

A New Hire…

Anyways, a new pigeon was shoved into the corporate roost. She’s fresh of the boat from Glendale. They’ll clip her wings soon enough. She doesn’t smell anything in the halls. God I hate that. When someone doesn’t smell something weird when there’s obviously a stink, it drives me nuts. There can be only two possibilities. 1) The person is walking around in a personal fog. 2) There person is lying. Either possibility spells doom. Clearly she’s from Glendale. She’s got big Desperate Housewives hair and an EZ Cheese smile. She is a pod person who’s been injected with Nancy Reagan’s DNA.

What is the Nature of “Work” in the Modern Era?

The OFFICE is a bizarre diemension. I am conflicted about it. Part of me recognizes that we live in the Pleasant-ine Era. The air temperature is controlled. There is no heavy lifting. No one is sweating in the office. Long gone are the days of a foul overseer splitting your back with a pig-hide whip and demanding to meet your sister. Long gone are the days of getting the fetid “Phossy Jaw.” Phossy Jaw is a condition caused by working in Match Factories [yes, the ones you stick in your sleeping buddy’s toes and light on fire]. In the early industrial revolution in England, women would work in Match Factories with poisonous phosphorous and get “Phossy Jaw.” It’s bone cancer in the face that causes the flesh on your face to turn green, and ooze, and stink until you died. The 14-year old girls who carried the matches on their heads went bald. E V I L.

So I recognize things aren’t that bad. A co-worker complained that she had “chronic fatigue syndrome” and I slapped her and said, “Bitch be thankful you ain’t got Phossy Jaw!” It was hard to explain it all to the HR guy who wrote me up, because he wasn’t knowledgeable of early Matchstick Manufacturing.

BUT…

There are many annoying things in an office:

There is always somebody who leaves an empty water bottle on the water cooler. Some wet-brained slag is too lazy to switch the bottle. Who is it? They should make a Divining Rod that instead of finding water, finds the Ass Mole that leaves a bone-dry bottle on the cooler.

Then there’s the smegma-roller that through expert-laziness never lets the water bottle get dry. He’ll scan the water mark and makes sure that it is technically in the safe zone so that he never changes the bottle. Even if that means he only gets two drops of water. It is more important to him to never exert himself physically than to be hydrated.

Women never feel obligated to change water bottles but wonder why women shouldn’t be allowed to be firefighters.

Some Candy Ass bastard is always hogging the Microwave with smelly Weight Watchers macaroni and cheese. They leave it unattended and rotating. It explodes and solidifies into the brown crust that remains in the microwave for eternity.

The refrigerator is disgusting. Chicks always pretend that they’re dieting so they only eat half of their lunch. Then they lodge their Spanish Rice [or whatever] in the refrigerator for the next generation. When you open up the fridge there are bails of plastic lunch bags rotting gently.

There’s always some food bandito that rides in on a horse and gobbles someone lunch in the fridge. The victim walks around the office in a daze repeating, “I can’t believe it. Someone ate my lunch. Who would do that?” And this bandito will never confess. He has the discipline of a Ninja. He will go to his grave with his lips sealed. He will comfort the victim and nod sympathetically knowing full well that he’s the SAVAGE EATER. Strange, that in a day an age where our CIA Agents get their covers blown by the Whitehouse, no one can force a fridge raider to reveal himself.

I don’t spell check.