What You Are Laughing At

Kill? No. That Would Be Unfair to People In Hell.

Stouty McNoisyknickers, the human pile who sits behind me, is fully on my nerves this morning. He's a person who is afraid of silence, afraid of his own thoughts. Here's how I know. I've seen him walk an entire hallway and flick a hand out on every third stride, to bank off a cubicle wall or a doorway. He will walk from one end of the building to another without a peep (yes, this floor is that devoid of life that I can see/hear him coming) and once he approaches an area where he knows there are people, he begins to whistle. No actual tunes, just random notes to fill what was once occupied by thoughts. He is an almost constant factory of sniffling and throat-clearing. Not the full-on lung/throat/nasal catharsis, more like the "sniff-sniff-KHM, ah", as if he popped his clutch too early, and that's 10 times/hour/hour. I'm not on anti-depressants, unless you count staring into his window and making a slashing motion across my heart a drug.

It's a character study in overly-ebullient personalities. Okay, we get it dude, you are FUN to work with! The kind of fun you get by letting a Springer spaniel loose in the building, lots of face licking and stumpy tail-wagging. He's a high-five from peeing in the Aspenwood Conference Room. He's a go-getter, a bulldog, a roper, a fireplug, a head-butter, a buttplug, a butthead, a firecracker, and most importantly of all, a selfish shankre. He's in charge of a bunch of contracts and vendors and really just another person in an office who cannot save this company from full assimilation. So why would he get to me?

Because I feel like I am pinned down behind enemy lines here. As if I have nothing but a lock-knife, 3 shots in a service revolver, a stick of wintergreen, and 2 cigarettes. I have to make every one of these items count before I make it to daylight. As I round the corner of the work garage, I see his stout form pacing back forth, breath breaking the calm of the night as he double-sniff-hacks his way to giving away his position. He's the only thing between me and that fence. On the other side of that fence lies a place I haven't seen in 3 months… Silence. Glorious, empty, idea & progress-filled SILENCE.

He's my albatross in an otter suit. He's an otter wrapped in a Snausage. It's almost as if everything he does is to say "LOOK AT ME. I AM CONTRIBUTING TO THE FUTURE OF… I MEAN, I AM HELPING BUILD THIS COMP… I WORK HERE! I AM SHORT!" The reality of the situation is that soon I will be working for another company, he'll still be here, and I'll be calling him randomly to whistle, clear my throat, and speak in analogies while he slowly descends into madness. By "madness" I mean "reality of the hopelessness that is The Death Star."

And he likes baseball. That alone should be grounds for torture.
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I Want To Know What Love Is. I Want You To Show Me. But Don't Be a Perv.

Hey, here are some parallels I've drawn between Love and stuff. I think this could be fun. If you have any, please e-mail them to me and I'll post them here.

Love is a many splintered thing.
Love is a rose. Somewhere, somebody just got 12 red nodules because of it.
Love is a tree. It's fully alive, yet totally flammable once it dries up.
Love is a frog. It's call in the middle of the night is both hilarious and frustrating. Oooh, Warts!
Love is a storm. You get wet and blown about, and need soup afterwards.
Love is a hug. When you give, you can receive. Too much or too little can hurt.
Love is a beer. It can cool you off, ease your spirits, and should be crushed when empty.
Love is a shoe. Many types for many occasions, and the more you wear, the more likely you will get a fungus or funny bumps.
Love is a drug. You may not be addicted to it, but then again, maybe you haven't had the good schidt.
Love is a knee. It can bend and stiffen to move you forward, or trick you and make you fall.
Love is a martini. Strong and pure, and it helps to knock one down at lunch.
Love is a knee to the balls. 'nuff said.
Love is a cocktail. I only want the top-shelf to feed my addiction.
Love is a kitten. Soft and innocent, falling off the couch, and scratching up your hands.

Your turn, FleaCollars. I gotta get back to work. Whistley Time!
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I vote "Milkshake" as the WORST song of the past 6 months. Close to whatever shyte N.E.R.D. put out.

Take Me Home