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This made my day a little brighter.

Guest Pilau Hands

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Guest Pilau Hands

This guy I know types an internet journal everyday...and everyday there's at least one line that makes me laugh out loud. Enjoy.



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I don’t have a real job at Misanthropy.

I just intern there.


Day 263


Today’s soundtrack: You can be, it’s okay


Today at 8:32am: Drinking cold coffee through a straw on my way to the subway station.



Jon (Department Director, fully capable of firing me) forced me to go into the conference room at lunch. Everyone on the floor was there having cake, because a woman I’d never met was leaving. A corporate goodbye party, replete with fond reminiscences, trite citations of amity, and multiple recountings of what passes for hijinks around here.



You can remember people by their proper names, or you can do what I (and I’m guessing most of you) do, which is to give them cruelly observant nicknames based on their most notable physical attributes or glaringly obvious psychological defects.


On my floor there is The Human Torchiere, Misery Woman, Creepy Smiling Guy Who Reminds Me of John Wayne Gacy, and The Woman With The Freakishly Humongous A’ss (Humong-a’ss, for the sake of brevity).


Explanations: Human Torchiere is a towering black man with a booming voice who, despite his skyscraping height, seems to weigh about a buck-twenty. Tall and thin, get it? Misery Woman I’ve already written about, so I’ll forsake reiteration. Smiling Guy Gacy, put some white makeup on his creepy a’ss and keep him the hell away from the playground.


The Woman With The Freakishly Humongous A’ss is by far the most visually interesting. From down the hall she kind of looks like a snake that just ate a mouse. Her posterior is mesmerizing because it is a marvel of structural engineering--if you ran those numbers through a computer, scientists would shake their heads and tell you it wouldn’t work. “Impossible,” they’d say. “The gravity created by something that large would interfere with tides, attract comets and cause nearby stars to collapse.”


(Please note that I don’t write these things to be mean. I write them so that if you find them humorous, I can accuse you of meanness and sleep with a clear conscience.)


Why don’t I know their names? you ask. After all, we’re all wearing ID badges with our first names printed in big letters, precluding squinting.


The answer is, I have little interest in getting to know my corporate co-workers, for the same reason I refuse to decorate my office with even a single photograph, rhyming witticism or postcard. Because doing any of those things would confirm that this is part of my life, that I sometimes spend the best hours of the day hunched in a chair, clicking buttons and staring at a rectangle. The most exercise I get is when I have to push the mouse up to the far, top right of the screen to close a window.


Thankfully this isn’t a full-time gig, it’s perma-lance. Meaning every week I will spend between one and five days sitting in that chair. Getting up to refill my lemon waters, avoiding hallway eye contact and stupid Corporate Banter (“Hey Bob, workin’ hard?” -“Hardly workin’!”) in the elevators.



“You gotta socialize, get in there, mix it up,” says Jon, clapping me on the back and pushing me further into the conference room. Some people look at me expectantly. There is cake on the table. I have a sudden urge to take my shirt off and push my face into the cake, slowly and deliberately.


It’s not that I don’t have anything in common with these people; it’s just that in order to find the commonality, I will have to become a version of myself I don’t enjoy.


While The Corporation is acceptably multicultural, at least judging by the cafeteria populace and the hallway propaganda, there aren’t many people of color in this room. Human Torchiere is too tall to talk to, so I shoot the sh’it with the black woman who brings packages around. There are over thirty people in the room, many of them average and nondescript. Gonna be a bi’tch thinking up nicknames for all of them.

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Guest Pilau Hands

Perhaps it made mine better from the source.


To persue a writing career, he has to get work when he can, to eat and pay rent. He types the journal to stay in constant practice when he can't always write. It forces you to create a story, or make something humorous that wouldn't normally be.


The dude is working an office job and instead of quitting or whining, he tries to keep his sanity with this. He's a funny motherfucker.


I don't know...made mine better.

Sorry you're having a bad day man.


Drink Shasta!


[This message has been edited by Pilau Hands (edited 09-22-2001).]

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