About once every two weeks I’ll be at work, and feel an urge to have Subway for lunch. Yes, a BMT with lettuce, tomato, and green peppers would be mighty good tonight, I say to myself. Then I remember: I told a guy there to go fuck himself, and can never return.
So, that bridge is fully burned, and there’s no way back. It felt good while it was ablaze, but now… not so much. Nowadays I just sigh with sadness when I think about it. ‘Cause I want back in!
Sometimes I catch myself considering disguises. I think: Maybe if I went in there wearing a clip-on ZZ Top beard, or a pair of those glasses with Japanese eyes painted on them, the dude wouldn’t recognize me and load-up my hoagie with boogers and scrotal residue?
But the risk is simply too great. I know this, deep down. I just have to come to terms with the fact I’ve completely burned a fast food bridge, in a neighborhood with few options. My god, what was I thinking?!
I heard a great nickname for a guy at work last night. In fact, it almost made me do a spit-take. I don’t think I should tell you what it is, because I’m paranoid, but I will tell you about a previous one that’s even better.
Years ago, you see, I worked with a sawed-off little prick named John. Well, I didn’t really work with him, we just worked under the same roof. Our jobs didn’t overlap all that much.
Anyway, he was roughly 4 foot 8 (possibly exaggerated), and was the poster child for Short Man Syndrome. He walked around with a chip on his tiny shoulder all the time, being hyper-confrontational, and acting like a complete jackass.
He was also a very snappy dresser — almost always overdressed for every occasion. And his secretary (of all people) started referring to him, behind his narrow back, as “Baby Gap.” Because, I guess, she believed that’s where he purchased all his fancy duds.
And that’s one of my all-time favorites. I’m laughing right now, just thinking about it. It’s perfection, I say.
Have you encountered any especially creative co-worker nicknames during your travels? I’m not talking about calling a fat guy “Tiny,” but the ones that are truly inspired. Tell us about it, won’t you?
And Buck sent me a link to this site today, where you can find out the number one song in America on the day you were born. Then you can listen to it, if you’d like.
The site is pretty clunky, but functions. And apparently “Big Girls Don’t Cry” was at the top of the charts when I emerged, already sporting the beginnings of the Jiffy Pop hair that’s plagued me ever since.
“Big Girls Don’t Cry”? That’s not very manly, is it? I’m not sure I care for it. It seems like it should be Nostrils’ song, not mine. At least that’s the way I see it.
In any case, the two of us were writing back and forth, telling each other what was number one during big events in our lives. And get this… Buck knows the exact date he lost his virginity. The exact date! And now he knows what was the most popular song in the nation when it happened, as well.
Is this something people generally know? ‘Cause I couldn’t even tell you the month. I know the year, and could probably narrow it down to a specific quarter… but that’s the best I can do.
Hell, I don’t even know if the first time was my first time. I might’ve had it in her purse, I’m not sure. The whole thing was quite ridiculous and clumsy, but we don’t need to get into all that, do we?
What was the number one song on the day you were born? And do you remember the exact date you lost your virginity, like Buck? If so, what was the most popular song at the time?
This will probably be my last update before Christmas, so I hope everyone has a great one. I appreciate you folks coming here every day and participating in the craziness. I will hoist a holiday beverage in your honor — as soon as I get this work week behind me. Is this the slowest week ever, or what? Sweet sainted mother of Hedda Lettuce!
Take care, and I’ll see you on the other side.